I arrived at my polling place in the middle of nowhere at 6:30 this morning and found 15 people in line--with temperatures in the mid-20s. What will the lines look like when my husband shows up to vote around 5 p.m.? At least the temperature ought to warm up by then.
Dropped my car off for some front-end work at 7 and my mechanic had kindly already warmed up a loaner car for me--not the bulky green van he usually provides but a beige Buick with 240,000 miles on it. (Anyone who can keep a Buick going that long gets my vote!) I'm happy to have a car to drive but here's the thing: I'm not a beige Buick kind of person. I sit in that big beige American car and suddenly I feel as if I'm sneaking out for a spin in my father's car, and I keep waiting for him to come barreling out yelling.
Last Saturday I saw a car lose a tire in the middle of the busiest intersection in town. This van suddenly went screeching past on three tires while the axle scored the pavement, but all eyes were on the loose tire suddenly bouncing and rolling through the middle of the intersection. It rolled this way, veered that way, tilted and bounced until a brave soul finally stepped in the middle of traffic and led the tire over toward the curb.
That's how this election season feels: a whole bunch of loud, noisy, hazardous machines veering through ordinary people's everyday lives, with the American voter stepping out into the melee to curb the chaos. But who will repair the deep grooves in the body politic?
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