This is not likely to be evergreen content. No, I would suppose by the time this is first read, you dear reader, will know the outcome of this highly controversial election. I’m not here to discuss that. It will be what it will be, no matter what side a person is on. I just hope you voted.

I grew up 22 miles from the nearest town. It was, in all likelihood, the nearest gallon of milk but you most definitely needed to call first. You were guaranteed to find beer there, but milk was less of a certainty. The school I attended was 5 miles from my house. As I type this, I realize that in 44 years I’ve never actually validated this claim. I have just assumed my predecessors were accurate. I guess I now have a goal for my next trip home. I digress. The school was two rooms. When I attended the rooms were connected by a hallway/entryway. It contained our boots and jackets, but was also the passageway between rooms. In later years a hole was torn in the wall to conjoin the two sides for access and monitoring. Apparently some of our shenanigans were cause for monitoring. 

Each election year the voting polls were held in our school in the north classroom. At the time no specific education took place there. It was used for recess inside, free reading, computer use or any other kind of extra educational purposes. But on election days it was converted into a polling station. I feel like I’m giving my best guess when I say the room was probably 20×30 feet. It was not large, but on election day it was the busiest place in our unsophisticated part of the county. Ottumwa had once been a bustling prairie town, but when the railroad went in 25 miles south it slowly dissolved into a simple school house surrounded by a few outbuildings and a house or two. I’m certain the June primaries were held in the same fashion as the November ones, but since it wasn’t during the school year, I have no recollection of those days. 

On that Tuesday in November there would be cars already at the school when we arrived. Since there was, on average, five families attending the school, having more than that number of cars on site was cause for excitement as a young kid. That first Tuesday of November in South Dakota can be bitter cold or unseasonably warm. It didn’t matter the temp though, when we opened the door of our vehicle, the scent of coffee smacked us in the face. This coffee necessitates explanation. I assume it was Folgers because that’s what everyone drank when I was growing up. However, those sweet, little, old ladies made it in such a fashion that it permeated the air, embedding itself in your clothes, your hair and your olfactory senses. It wasn’t bitter, but it was black. To my recollection, cream was never an option. You just poured a cup of that murky substance and prayed you didn’t end up with hair on your chest. 

The older ladies of the community ran the polls, consuming vast quantities of their infamous coffee. I have no idea if voter registration was required, but it wasn’t necessary. “Well, John Mark Waller, it’s so great to see you!” one of the poll ladies would croon, “I remember the day you were born. It was an awful cold Thursday that 18th of November in ’65. Sure is good to see you’ve grown into those feet now that you’re 6’1 and still have those beautiful blue eyes.” Who needs a driver’s license for identification when you had one of those ladies on site? They knew everyone. And while they sat their handing out ballots they whispered quietly among themselves catching up on all the latest gossip. Since you weren’t supposed to talk inside the room where voting was taking place, once a vote had been cast, the voters would step outside and catch up with their neighbors, a steaming black cup of joe in their hand. When you live in a small farm/ranch community, these events are the ones that strengthen bonds. Those 10 minutes between voting and heading back to farm duties were priceless. 

I look back on those years fondly, obviously. My grandma was often one of those ladies running the poll. I can’t ever recall a time I saw her that didn’t bring joy to my face, so having her at my school for the day was sure to put me on a cloud. The steady stream of neighbors strolling through was top-level excitement for us country kids who basically saw the same 12 kids, plus teachers and our families day in and day out. It seems odd to wax poetic about it now, but I can see the little things have always been what mattered to me, I just didn’t have words for it.

When I went to vote, here in Tennessee, I was expecting a much grander and sterile experience than the one I had growing up. I was wrong. As I opened the door to the church, the scent of coffee hit me head on. I smiled as an older lady walked toward me with a Styrofoam cup of goodness in her hand. “Welcome! We’re glad you’re here.” she said with a wide grin, guiding me into the poll area.

True, she didn’t know my name or birthday, but when I rounded the corner to find a table full of little, old ladies waiting to check me in all I could do was smile. They were doing their civic duty and I was doing mine. Election day is about so much more than voting. At the very root of it all, it makes us one. It makes us American. 

~Written By Karri Buck~