This Is Not a Political Post

I had hoped to write this post yesterday, but yesterday I was a useless bag of bones. As I had suspected, I am no longer able to work a 14-hour day then bounce back with cheerful energy the following day. 

Tuesday I did something I've wanted to do since the first time I cast a vote: I donned a pin identifying me as an official poll worker and spent the day helping voters carry out their democratic duties. And even though some of my candidates won and some did not win, I left the polling place more hopeful about the future of our democracy than I have been for some time. 

If you don't want to read through a whole slather of words (and just who has been slathering you with words while I've been on break?) here's the bottom line: 

This election crew in Small Town was absolutely dedicated to making sure every single person who showed up had a chance to vote, and that every legitimate vote was counted correctly, and that every vote count was reported scrupulously. 

And just as importantly, of the 450-plus voters for whom I checked credentials, there were exactly two persons who made a single partisan comment, and those two comments were non-threatening and non-specific. 

Friends, this was not at all what I expected. I read the news, listen to radio reports frequently, and occasionally watch commentators on television through splayed fingers. I saw the balaclava-masked armed "observers" looming over the ballot boxes in Arizona. I had been horrified by the traction gained by the Big Lie concerning the 2020 election. What was the truth?

So it was an easy decision when I was contacted about being a poll worker. My flexible, mostly-retired schedule can now afford a day off so I went through pre-election training. There I asked an innocent question: Should I bring my knitting for the lulls during the day? I remembered when my mother was a poll worker in the rural township where I grew up, which had a total of (if I'm remembering correctly) 27 registered voters. She did most of her Christmas knitting on election day. The burst of laughter let me know that this isn't the case in Small Town. 

I showed up at our 6:00 a.m. report time packing my lunch, snacks, and a day's worth of coffee. By then the senior members of the election team had set up the voting stations, but I opened the first sealed bags of ballots to get them ready for early voters. Then I was assigned to my spot as a Poll Pad judge, got a quick tutorial on the iPad-based ID verification system, and we were off and running. 

"Every voter who comes in and wants to vote will vote," we were told. If there's a problem with the registration, such a name change from the driver's license to the voter registration because of marriage, or someone is voting in the wrong location, the voter would need to fill out a provisional ballot to be counted separately. This process has the side advantage of cleaning up voter rolls--a change of address for the next election is filled out on the spot. 

Every single voter had to be identified with photo ID, and every single voter had to match name and address to the registration rolls before being given a ballot and casting a vote. 

When the polls opened at 7 a.m. voters came in like the tide, snaking through the crowd control stanchions like cranky travelers working their way to the ticket counter. The room was packed. But by 7:27 a.m. (I checked my watch) every one of those persons had been verified and moved on to voting. For the rest of the day, although traffic was steady, we never had more than a dozen or so persons in line and almost everyone moved immediately to a verification clerk. Not one person I verified was peevish or nasty. 

By the time I left the polling place at 8 p.m. I was ready to be done, but I also had a new perspective on our elections. Here are my take-aways from a day on the election frontlines:

1. People are interesting, and a driver's license is a great ice-breaker. I complimented one man's flowing beard and handlebar mustache and he pulled out his business card--as Santa Claus! Santa votes in Small Town!

2. Voters want their votes to count. Provisional ballots take slightly longer than regular ballots, but I didn't see anyone walk away from the process. (I don't guarantee this across the whole election, only what was observable from my piece of the process, but I'm fairly confident this statement holds.)

3. Election workers at our polling place are top-notch. Every vote was crucial to us, and we all wanted to be impartial irrespective of our personal views.  

4. Democracy is important, and we may yet be able to save it.

Also, I am now old and creaky and my wonky hip and knees do not like long days. But I'll be back for the next election if I'm invited. This is important work, and I want to be part of it.

Be Patient With Me--I'm a Toddler

Happy birthday to this cutie who made me a mother!

The screensaver on my computer plays a never-ending stream of old pictures from the folders I have amassed over the years. Frankly, this is one of my favorite features of the digital age because I frequently catch a glimpse of a shot I might not have otherwise remembered.

This morning for example, I saw the face of a perfectly contented one-year-old Boy#1, who had just finished a meal of spaghetti. He is happy, the bowl is empty, and there is complete oblivious peace regarding the spaghetti sauce that coats his highchair, face, bib, arms, and the general three-states area.

So how are things going now that I'm two weeks and three days into having a broken wing? Well, pretty much like Boy#1 in this picture. I'm mostly content, well fed, and learning new things every day.

And, holy cow, am I messy.

Much of the messiness, to be sure, is inside my head. The Puritan work ethic that is especially strong in Kansans is leading to much guilt about what I cannot do. What I cannot do is what formerly filled the majority of my time.

I cannot cook. I cannot clean. I cannot type. I cannot knit. I cannot play the piano. (And we will not even mention the personal hygiene things that are difficult but not impossible to do one-handed, including showering, combing my hair, moisturizing my “good” arm, etc.)

Every single thing I do, including the things that I used to do without even thinking about them, takes many multiples of the amount of time it normally take. I'm looking at you, toothbrushing.

What I can do, I am finding, is figure out how to do the things that have to be done and quit doing everything else.

This post, for example, is being composed using voice-to-text technology. I'm speaking thoughts into my computer's microphone and it is more-or-less accurately transcribing them into a Word document that I will copy and paste into the blog. I do not like doing it this way. I've long thought that my fingers did most of the thinking for me when I typed, and now I know that is actually the case. But I'm grateful that this technology exists and I'm building new synapses as I learn how to use it.

I'm getting better at using eating utensils in my left hand. I believe I no longer look like a deranged toddler shoveling half my food into my mouth while the other half drops in my lap. But I have a great admiration for those toddlers who are figuring out how to use spoons and forks without having a real appreciation for why this is better than using their hands. (Is it? Is it, really?)

I am discovering the best wardrobe options for a one-handed person. This includes a total lack of fasteners--no buttons, no hooks and eyes, nothing to tie or buckle. Over-the-head T-shirts and elastic-waisted skirts are my friends. And why skirts, you might ask? Because in the complicated world of dressing and toileting, anything that doesn't need to be pulled up with two hands is a plus.

Pillows are essential. I sleep surrounded by fluffiness that can prop up the cast in the most comfy position. That cast by the way, cannot possibly weigh more than a pound or two but feels as if I'm hoisting a barbell at all times. A sling is helpful but mostly that just transfers the weight to a neck that is already achey.

I'll be honest, though: The most crucial component in this healing process is a husband with a servant heart.

Husband does not cook. At all. But since I made my way head-first into the iris bed, he has done the shopping, prepared the meals, set the table, cut up my food, and cleaned up afterwards.

And have I mentioned that we're doing this in the middle of a kitchen remodel? All kitchen duties are undertaken in the most primitive of conditions. I kept him company one night as he was washing the dishes on the deck, having filled the dishpan in the bathtub.

“It's like camping, isn't it?” I asked him.

“Yes, but with Wi-Fi and air conditioning,” he replied. “It's not so bad.”

I decided that for the next month or so that's going to be my mantra. This isn't my usual life, with its activities and responsibilities. But it could have been so much worse and I have Husband pampering me at every turn, good books, and Acorn streaming on the TV.

I may have spaghetti all over my face but it's not so bad.

He's a keeper.

Not the Memorial Day Memory I Expected

 

Woohoo! Class of '72!

I already was planning to write a blog post about the Memorial Day weekend. Truly! I knew there would be a ton of things to discuss and it's been months since I checked in.

It was, after all, my 50th year class reunion. (How? Just how?) I had waited 50 year to be in the class that sits smack-dab in the middle of the main intersection of Tiny Hometown while the firetrucks and decked-out horses and antique cars drive by for the honor class's approval. 

Somehow I'd become part of the organizing committee for this grand event and after looking at old yearbooks and scanning pictures  and compiling lists, I'd gotten excited about seeing the Class of '72 after a half century. (And I repeat, how did that happen?) 

And it was also the first time since before the pandemic that all of the Boys who live within driving distance of where I grew up would be back on The Farm. Even though we'd be sad to be missing the #Two family, I couldn't wait. The stories I'd be able to tell about Baby Wonderful #1 meeting the feral sheep!

I got within half an hour of living that imagined post. That was when, on Saturday morning, my 95-year-old-father came in the back door with his hand dripping blood. He had fallen in the basement and the resulting skin tear was more than dripping--blood thinners and tissue-paper-thin elderly blood are a tricky combination. While Dad's wife applied pressure I stepped out on the deck to try to get cell phone reception, something the pioneers forgot to include when they were building the limestone house 150 years ago.

I started a text to my Youngest Brother, who lives just a couple hundred yards down the road from Dad and would know how to proceed. He's a farmer and a volunteer firefighter and what he doesn't know about emergencies probably isn't worth knowing. That's what I was thinking, anyway, as I was walking across the deck looking for those elusive bars and stepped off the edge, swan-diving face-first into my mother's iris bed.

It is a most disconcerting feeling, and one that provokes an amazing array of reactions during the literal split second between the right foot missing the deck edge and the right hand/arm/shoulder/sternum/lower extremities hitting the ground. I mean, the drop is two feet. How was I able to do so much internal processing in this amount of time?

"WHAAAAT?" I thought.

 "Oh, crap," I thought.

"That was stupid," I thought.

"This is going to hurt," I thought.

And then I hit the ground and it did hurt. A lot. 

I allowed myself a few seconds to relax and reflect there in the irises. Was I alive? Yes. What hurt the most? Definitely the sternum to shoulder route, where a Game of Thrones  assassin was stabbing his war sword straight through from front to back. I started to lift my right arm to check for blood, and what do you know! There was something more disconcerting than pain, and that was the clearly discernible grating noise coming from my forearm.

At that moment, like a knight in shining armor, Youngest Brother appeared through the iris leaves in my peripheral vision. He was (and I'm not kidding) carrying a big pan of biscuits and gravy and for a second episode of split-second multiple thoughts, I thought I'd died and gone to heaven.  I mean, can you think of a better way  for St. Peter to welcome you in? But no, YB was just bringing breakfast for the gang and he set the pans on the deck before dashing over to assess the situation.

Within moments he was doing triage. Boy#4 had arrived on the scene and (still not kidding) THOUGHT I WAS DOING SOME GARDENING. (Later Four admitted that he doesn't know of many kinds of gardening that are done face-down and crumpled on the ground with skirts barely providing dignity.) Youngest Brother dashed inside for a magazine (without staples) that he rolled up and taped to my arm, and the improvised splint made life worth living again. He and Husband carefully rolled me to a sitting position, then lifted me to my feet and got me into the front seat of the car. Dad was bundled into the backseat, and 10 miles later we were in adjoining rooms of Tiny Hometown's excellent emergency room.

There it was confirmed that my right arm was indeed broken, but I had managed a nice clean break. The assassin's war sword was diagnosed as stretched and abused muscles/tendons/whatever and would heal without intervention. Dad got a few squirts of Super Glue For Skin and made it to the parade in time to be honored with the rest of the veterans.

I, sadly, did not make it to the parade but dropped into one of the day's later events where I discovered the rumor was that I had broken my nose. 

Later, as reunion participants Facebook-gushed about how much fun the day had been, I was sad to have missed it. But I realized I got much out of the day that my classmates did not. A sweet navy blue cast, for example. The brand-new knowledge that  putting on underwear and earrings are both jobs for two hands. The realization that I may have been remiss in my sons' gardening education.

But also, a deep, deep knowledge that this could have been so much worse. I'm boundlessly grateful for the relatively soft landing strip of iris, and especially that Youngest Brother was there within literal seconds of that landing.

It wasn't the memory I expected, but it's the one I have, and I'm grateful.

My mother's irises may never be the same. 

Wordle Knows I'm a Terrible Sport

 

Before I begin this whine, I need to preface it with a solid declaration that I love word games.

Love. Them.

I love Scrabble, and spelling bees (obviously), and as of today my New York Times crossword completion streak stands at 625 days. That is one year, eight months, and three weeks that I have earned a gold star for completing the puzzle on the day it was published. And my personal solving standards mean I can ask anyone within earshot (Husband) for help on esoteric sports names, but no Googling allowed. 

So I not only love word games, but I'm pretty good at them.

But this new word game? The one everyone in the known universe is now playing and bragging about on Facebook and Instagram and who-knows-where else? 

My usual reaction

In case you are the single person in the world who has not jumped on the Wordle train, the rules of the free-for-now* game are that you have six chances to guess a five-letter word. When you enter the first word, the game lets you know if you've guessed any letters in the right spot (green!), any letters that are not in the right spot (yellow), and any letters that are wrong (grey or black). Then you have five more guesses. At the end of the six attempts, you have the option to share your results with the world. 

Several far-flung MomQueenBee family were early Wordle adopters and started a text thread so that we could share our results among ourselves. Now I know that at a few minutes after 6 a.m. my text notification will chime with news that the East Coast contingent of our text thread has discovered the word. The Central Standard participants come in a couple of hours later, and the rest will check in before the day is over. 

So why does this thing that combines words and family and should be my very favorite thing in the world having me clenching my fists and shaking my hairbrush? 

Because I don't win. 

I have never once, in the month or so that we've been doing this, had the low score in the family. Others have routinely guessed the word in three tries, sometimes even two (which, HOW?). I hover around the four-to-six guess range, and twice have failed to get the word at all. 

How can this even be? I am by far not the sharpest knife in this drawer of sharp knives, but I am the only one who makes her living with words. I SHOULD BE WINNING.

So here's what I've decided: I just know too darned many words. Check, for example, the screenshot from a recent day above. 

That's my unsuccessful grid in the middle. I had correctly guessed three of the five letters correctly on the first try! Woohoo! This was going to be the day I got it in two tries!

But, spoiler alert, I did not. My whiney "Sometimes I hate this game" was that morning's loving declaration to my children.

The correct word was SHARD. Do you know how many words could be correct for those final two guesses? How about SHARK? And SHARP? And SHARE? Earlier in the game, before the H fell into place, how about SCARF? Or STARK? or SWARM?

So my rationalization of my ineptitude with this game is this: It's a word game, but it's also a game of luck, and I'm not very good at games of luck although I am a champion at overthinking. I do love having all the Boys and Lovely Girls checking in every day, though, so it's well worth being at the bottom of the Wordle pile.

When the Boys were young and of competitive sports-playing age we always sent them off to their games with the same instructions:

Play hard. Play fair. Have a good time. It's just a game.

We omitted the customary "Play to win." because we wanted them to be good sports and to enjoy the competition but to not spend much time thinking about winners and losers. (The dreaded QueenBee lack-of-speed gene did not work in their favor.)

Now it's my turn to remind myself. 

Play hard. Play fair. Have a good time. Smile when you hear that chime.

It's just a game.

*The New York Times recently bought rights to this game for a bazillion dollars, so odds are good it won't be free forever.