Yesterday started extremely early for me. I headed to our polling place around the corner just before 6 a.m. The line inside the building had already reached the door, so I was the first to have to wait outside in the fog and darkness. I had worn my winter coat and gloves, just in case, and was happy to have thought of them. The line moved quickly though, and I made my way to the voting machine, cast my ballot, and was headed home after half an hour.
At work, and later at my doctor’s appointment, there was discussion around each corner about the election. Everyone seemed to be thinking about it, anxious for the results to be in. After stopping at an election day fundraiser for dinner, we headed home to watch the returns come in. We followed online, and kept our own tally to see how the numbers unfolded. It was after midnight before we headed to bed, exhausted, overwhelmed by the events of the evening, and contemplating how our future as a nation might be.
This was my tenth presidential election. In 1971, when I was eighteen, my father drove me to the county seat, where I registered to vote. I remember our drive there, and the running conversations we would have about the issues of the day. He knew that I needed to act upon my convictions, and impressed upon me the importance of my vote. I’ve never forgotten his words.
In 1972 George and I participated in our first presidential election. It was an exciting moment back then, going behind the curtain, pulling down the levers to signify my choice, knowing I had done my part. Thirty-six years later, the feeling was just as intense.