We do not have government by the majority. We have government by the majority who participate.
~ Thomas Jefferson
Turns out both Tim Kaine and I have a soft spot for Carver Elementary School.
For me, it was the 2008 election at Carver because despite having been an active voter since I was 18, never had I seen the diversity - black, brown, white, young, old - or the sheer number of people in a line that snaked up and down halls of classrooms, outdoors and down the block. I'll never forget how moved I was by people doing their civic duty.
When Mac came over to walk today, I suggested our walk include me voting, which wasn't a hard sell because we haven't been able to get on the pipeline for days. Once at Carver, I headed inside to vote while Mac said she'd wait outside to enjoy the last of the warm front before the thunderstorms moved in.
Imagine my surprise when I walked outside to rejoin her, only to hear, "Look who I'm talking to" and see Tim Kaine standing next to her. Moments earlier, I'd been filling in the circle to vote for him and then, just to make sure, going back over that circle to ensure that I was clear on my choice.
Now here he was smiling at me.
Like any idiot unexpectedly faced with her U.S. Senator, I babbled something about having just voted for him, but then my brain cleared and I realized I had something to tell him: that I'd just recently seen "The Laramie Project" and been terribly impressed with the show in general and specifically, his daughters's performance in it.
What Dad doesn't want to hear how talented his offspring is?
He beamed. He shared that she's living in NYC these days, a fact I already knew but didn't let on. He told me how great Richmond Triangle Players - where "Laramie" had been produced - was and I told him I agreed. We were united in our RTP love. That, and an unspoken hope for a blue voting wave today.
It was then that Mac's need to document clicked in and she asked if he would pose for a picture and he did us one better, asking one of his assistants standing nearby to snap a picture of all three of us. So there we are in front of the Carver Elementary School sign, grinning like the happy voters we all three were.
Except that Tim Kaine doesn't live in my neighborhood, so what was he doing there? Seems that my precinct was the one that won him a seat on city council, his first elected position, so he always makes a point to hang out at Carver on election days.
"Thanks again!" he said, smiling, as we headed off on our walk, photographic evidence of our chance meeting on Mac's phone.
Well, if I didn't think I had the best polling place ever before, I'm thoroughly convinced of it now. When I sent the photo to my parents - the same parents who told me and my sisters not to bring home any boy who didn't vote in every election - my Dad had his usual pithy response.
"Very nice pic! Such tidbits of wisdom is why T.J. is one of my favorites. Assuming and not voting is one of the main reasons we are in this current predicament! It will be a lengthy reclamation project..."
Doing my part to reclaim at Carver Elementary every chance I get. Tim was just a bonus.
Showing posts with label voting. Show all posts
Showing posts with label voting. Show all posts
Tuesday, November 6, 2018
Wednesday, November 8, 2017
Some Kind of a Man
Blue skies weren't necessary today when we woke up to a blue victory.
On this gray and soggy day, it was all anybody was talking about on Facebook, so I shouldn't have been surprised to hear from my Dad - from whom I get my tendency to have an opinion on everything - on the subject.
"Nice result! Glad to see the Commonwealth took the high road. Personally, I was dubious about all last week's FAKE NEWS about how Gillespie was almost dead even. Couldn't see it. Yucky weather. Have a good one."
Just last night I'd invoked my Dad's name while I was at the Valentine's community conversation about voting. Each of the participants was asked to share how voting was handled in our families growing up, so I'd told my seatmate that both my parents follow politics closely and voting was taken seriously in our house.
So seriously that my sisters and I were told not to consider dating a guy who didn't vote - perish the thought - much less bring one home to meet Mom and Dad.
I was well into middle age before I - gasp! - did start dating a man who not only didn't vote, he'd never even registered to vote. Fortunately, he seemed to grasp the gravity of the situation when I explained the family rule and registered forthwith so he could cast a vote in the 2012 election.
Needless to say, I never told my parents.
Responding to Dad's message, I told him I thought it sent a message to the narcissist-in-chief as well as the rest of the country. I went on, "A gray, depressing day but with encouraging and hopeful news...I'll take it! But I already miss wearing shorts on my walk."
Without missing a beat, he shot back, "The eyeballers probably do as well...lol! Now if the Dems can sustain this momentum. Ciao!"
The eyeballers? Only my father can crack me up, then bring it back around to what's important: politics.
What did seem ideal for the damp, dreary cold was film noir, especially one described as "A truly great flick with Orson Welles at his obese, dissipated best," although neither of the friends I invited were free (although one got points for acknowledging, "What could better complement the weather?").
That much was clear by the decent-size crowd that assembled at the Byrd for "Touch of Evil," in which we got a Welles hat trick: he starred, wrote and directed the 1958 film. Although why he chose to have Charlton Heston playing a Mexican we'll never know.
The Byrd's manager Todd clued us in to the extended opening shot, considered to be so masterfully executed that it alone caused generations of people to want to become cinematographers. He also shared that the film had been finished by Welles to his satisfaction, recut by Universal Studios to his dissatisfaction and then a third version reassembled in 1998 using a 58-page memo from Welles' after his original cut was lost.
"So you're seeing a film that's part Welles, part Universal and part '50s," he warned us. The '50s elements were glaring: the young Mexican men wore leather jackets and sideburns, listened to loud rock and roll music and smoked reefers while Janet Leigh's undergarments shaped her breasts into sharp, conical points that could have cut glass.
In fact, every shot of her was a '50s man's dream of a hot woman, from her fitted clothes and sexy lingerie to her wanton scenes with her blond hair loose in bed, or on a fire escape with nothing but a sheet wrapped around her.
Titillation was so much simpler in those days.
And film noir, well, that was so much better then, too. Evil was obvious and good guys realized when they hadn't kissed their woman in the past hour and did so no matter where they were.
The eyeballers must have loved that.
On this gray and soggy day, it was all anybody was talking about on Facebook, so I shouldn't have been surprised to hear from my Dad - from whom I get my tendency to have an opinion on everything - on the subject.
"Nice result! Glad to see the Commonwealth took the high road. Personally, I was dubious about all last week's FAKE NEWS about how Gillespie was almost dead even. Couldn't see it. Yucky weather. Have a good one."
Just last night I'd invoked my Dad's name while I was at the Valentine's community conversation about voting. Each of the participants was asked to share how voting was handled in our families growing up, so I'd told my seatmate that both my parents follow politics closely and voting was taken seriously in our house.
So seriously that my sisters and I were told not to consider dating a guy who didn't vote - perish the thought - much less bring one home to meet Mom and Dad.
I was well into middle age before I - gasp! - did start dating a man who not only didn't vote, he'd never even registered to vote. Fortunately, he seemed to grasp the gravity of the situation when I explained the family rule and registered forthwith so he could cast a vote in the 2012 election.
Needless to say, I never told my parents.
Responding to Dad's message, I told him I thought it sent a message to the narcissist-in-chief as well as the rest of the country. I went on, "A gray, depressing day but with encouraging and hopeful news...I'll take it! But I already miss wearing shorts on my walk."
Without missing a beat, he shot back, "The eyeballers probably do as well...lol! Now if the Dems can sustain this momentum. Ciao!"
The eyeballers? Only my father can crack me up, then bring it back around to what's important: politics.
What did seem ideal for the damp, dreary cold was film noir, especially one described as "A truly great flick with Orson Welles at his obese, dissipated best," although neither of the friends I invited were free (although one got points for acknowledging, "What could better complement the weather?").
That much was clear by the decent-size crowd that assembled at the Byrd for "Touch of Evil," in which we got a Welles hat trick: he starred, wrote and directed the 1958 film. Although why he chose to have Charlton Heston playing a Mexican we'll never know.
The Byrd's manager Todd clued us in to the extended opening shot, considered to be so masterfully executed that it alone caused generations of people to want to become cinematographers. He also shared that the film had been finished by Welles to his satisfaction, recut by Universal Studios to his dissatisfaction and then a third version reassembled in 1998 using a 58-page memo from Welles' after his original cut was lost.
"So you're seeing a film that's part Welles, part Universal and part '50s," he warned us. The '50s elements were glaring: the young Mexican men wore leather jackets and sideburns, listened to loud rock and roll music and smoked reefers while Janet Leigh's undergarments shaped her breasts into sharp, conical points that could have cut glass.
In fact, every shot of her was a '50s man's dream of a hot woman, from her fitted clothes and sexy lingerie to her wanton scenes with her blond hair loose in bed, or on a fire escape with nothing but a sheet wrapped around her.
Titillation was so much simpler in those days.
And film noir, well, that was so much better then, too. Evil was obvious and good guys realized when they hadn't kissed their woman in the past hour and did so no matter where they were.
The eyeballers must have loved that.
Tuesday, March 1, 2016
In the Zone
Even for my oddly-lived life, today had elements of the truly bizarre.
Of all the reasons I might have to wake up early, today's was among the least likely. I had to go have my picture taken first thing in the morning because of my writing.
Which writing? I have no idea and won't until the Virginia Press Association awards are announced in April, but higher-ups know my name will be among those called, and that, apparently, requires me to show off my dimples when I'd usually still be snoozing.
Say cheese.
That done, my next priority was voting, where I was happy to see a line of eager voters ahead of me. Sometimes it's just me and the poll workers.
As I shuffled forward, something occurred to me. Since it was an open primary, perhaps I should use my vote as a voice against the evil that threatens to overtake our country.
Once at the desk, I inquired if it was possible. Grinning widely, the registrar informed that not only could I have either ballot I wanted, but that I was far from the first person to make the decision to jump party today. "But I can't tell you what to do." Her smile widens.
Heaven help me, I guiltily accepted the Republican ballot and voted, assuaging my conscience with the knowledge that although I have a Democratic preference, I could live with either one getting the nomination and winning, but I couldn't stand it if Trump did.
Never in my decades of regularly voting have I done such a thing and if my wildly liberal ancestors aren't rolling in their graves, they're applauding me.
Later, I told a black friend what I'd done, inspiring him to do the same, albeit with more judgment directed at him. He messaged me, "Sure, it was fine for you, Miss White Woman, but you have seen the look three brothers gave me when they saw me take that ballot."
Truly, I felt his pain.
I was nearly home from my walk when a well-dressed man stopped and introduced himself, explaining that he'd lived on the next block for the past two years and saw me all the time.
Next thing I knew, we were talking about public art, living in D.C.- which we both had - and how much Richmond has changed since the '90s when he left.
When we finally got around to discussing walking, I knew I'd met someone worthy. Sure, I do 6 or 7 miles, but this guy walks to Willow Lawn and back, for an eight mile constitutional. We compared walking Broad Street to Monument Avenue, geeking out on some of the things you see at street level that you miss entirely from a car.
After a half hour or so, he said he needed to go vote, but asked if I'd like to come over for a glass of wine or tea when he got back. Why not? "I'll call you when I'm crossing Belvidere," he said after getting over his amazement at my lack of a cell phone.
I had just enough time to eat a quick bite before the phone rang and I met him out front. "I went for Kasich," he told me, with the same guilt of a lifelong Democrat voting Republican as I'd felt.
So it was then I entered the 1870 house of a man I'd met less than an hour before. Enormous pocket doors, a kitchen where the old washing porch used to be, servants' quarters, a very handsome home, far more ornate than my 1876 house.
Then we sat down with our libations and dove into the deep end of the conversational pool with abandon. He told me how much he'd loved living in Cambridge and hated living in Boston and we compared notes on life in Washington. Since he's only been back for two years, he wanted restaurant and music venue recommendations.
It turns out his sister and I went to the same school, graduating within a year of each other. Like me, he's self-employed so we discussed the self-discipline that requires, along with its benefits, such as impromptu afternoon meet-ups with neighbors.
We were into our second hour of talking about the cultural shifts we'd seen in our lifetimes when I declined a second glass because I had work to do, but we agreed a walk is in order sooner rather than later.
Once that work was finished, I got ready to go to the Valentine for this month's Community Conversation, "Re-RVA: Revitalizing, Recycling and Re-imagining," thrilled that the weather was still so warm for the walk there.
I didn't get two blocks before I ran into my new friend for the third time today, this time returning from a meeting. Now that we've met, I think we're going to find we run into each other a lot in that way you never notice someone until you meet them and then suddenly they're everywhere.
Walking in to the Valentine, director Bill Martin greeted me by asking, "Did you vote?" My voting sticker was still stuck to my walking shirt, so I explained how I had voted a party I detest. "Lots of my friends did that today, too," he assured me.
So I'm not the only one terrified of the future, I guess.
It was by far the smallest group for one of these conversations I've yet to see, a fact no doubt attributable to voting day, but it was a dedicated one. When Bill was talking about re-purposing, he showed an image of the architectural salvage store Caravatti's, asking who'd been there.
Practically every hand in the room shot up. "Gosh, this is a recycling crowd!" he said, sounding surprised. It was, too, with people there who had specific recycling bones to pick with the panel of experts who'd come to speak.
When we were shown images of old WWI and WWII posters, one showed a thrifty housewife doing her part by saving cooking grease, straining it, storing it in a cool place and then, "selling it to your meat dealer."
"Anyone here have a meat dealer?" Bill asked to laughter. No, but my Mom certainly had a grease can with a strainer she kept in the cabinet and reused its contents often.
Shucks, I guess that means we didn't have a meat dealer, either.
Breaking into our small groups, we discussed single stream recycling, compost company pick-ups and why the counties make it so difficult for their residents to recycle, with several people making the point that the problem is not what we recycle but the over-packaging and single-use serving mindset that's overtaken consumers.
Good luck changing that.
Walking home, the air was still warm and while I was hungry, I'd had my conversational jones satisfied earlier and I knew I should get home to work, so I decided to stop at the Cultured Swine for a quick meal.
While I'm waiting for my BLTotally Awesome, the cook asks the cashier to look at the impressive Tarheel taco he's working on, at how amazingly beautiful its presentation is. Of course I'm going to stand up and take a peek at the N.C.-style barbecue he's laid out on a tortilla in three perfect meaty mounds.
"Sometimes I impress myself," he jokes, before finishing the taco off with a mountain of coleslaw and Swine sauce, only to show it off again. "Damn, look at this! Now it's even prettier!"
I came awfully close to changing my order, but I'm a huge fan of his house bacon because it's so thickly sliced it almost crosses out of bacon territory, plus he serves it with the freshest of mixed greens on a a baguette, a combo I love.
By the time my sandwich came out, I was deep into an episode of "Twilight Zone" called "The Four of Us are Dying" about a guy who could change his face to elude people, except that didn't always work out for him when he ran into someone from the face's past, like the boxer's Dad who hated him for breaking his mothers heart by running off and ruining his girlfriend's life.
So despite my intention to grab and go, there I was happily drinking a glass bottle of Sprite (zero profit in glass recycling, by the way), eating my Awesome and watching '60s television after waking up to pose, voting Republican, going to a stranger's house and talking trash.
I'm sure this day could have gotten weirder, I'm just not sure how.
Of all the reasons I might have to wake up early, today's was among the least likely. I had to go have my picture taken first thing in the morning because of my writing.
Which writing? I have no idea and won't until the Virginia Press Association awards are announced in April, but higher-ups know my name will be among those called, and that, apparently, requires me to show off my dimples when I'd usually still be snoozing.
Say cheese.
That done, my next priority was voting, where I was happy to see a line of eager voters ahead of me. Sometimes it's just me and the poll workers.
As I shuffled forward, something occurred to me. Since it was an open primary, perhaps I should use my vote as a voice against the evil that threatens to overtake our country.
Once at the desk, I inquired if it was possible. Grinning widely, the registrar informed that not only could I have either ballot I wanted, but that I was far from the first person to make the decision to jump party today. "But I can't tell you what to do." Her smile widens.
Heaven help me, I guiltily accepted the Republican ballot and voted, assuaging my conscience with the knowledge that although I have a Democratic preference, I could live with either one getting the nomination and winning, but I couldn't stand it if Trump did.
Never in my decades of regularly voting have I done such a thing and if my wildly liberal ancestors aren't rolling in their graves, they're applauding me.
Later, I told a black friend what I'd done, inspiring him to do the same, albeit with more judgment directed at him. He messaged me, "Sure, it was fine for you, Miss White Woman, but you have seen the look three brothers gave me when they saw me take that ballot."
Truly, I felt his pain.
I was nearly home from my walk when a well-dressed man stopped and introduced himself, explaining that he'd lived on the next block for the past two years and saw me all the time.
Next thing I knew, we were talking about public art, living in D.C.- which we both had - and how much Richmond has changed since the '90s when he left.
When we finally got around to discussing walking, I knew I'd met someone worthy. Sure, I do 6 or 7 miles, but this guy walks to Willow Lawn and back, for an eight mile constitutional. We compared walking Broad Street to Monument Avenue, geeking out on some of the things you see at street level that you miss entirely from a car.
After a half hour or so, he said he needed to go vote, but asked if I'd like to come over for a glass of wine or tea when he got back. Why not? "I'll call you when I'm crossing Belvidere," he said after getting over his amazement at my lack of a cell phone.
I had just enough time to eat a quick bite before the phone rang and I met him out front. "I went for Kasich," he told me, with the same guilt of a lifelong Democrat voting Republican as I'd felt.
So it was then I entered the 1870 house of a man I'd met less than an hour before. Enormous pocket doors, a kitchen where the old washing porch used to be, servants' quarters, a very handsome home, far more ornate than my 1876 house.
Then we sat down with our libations and dove into the deep end of the conversational pool with abandon. He told me how much he'd loved living in Cambridge and hated living in Boston and we compared notes on life in Washington. Since he's only been back for two years, he wanted restaurant and music venue recommendations.
It turns out his sister and I went to the same school, graduating within a year of each other. Like me, he's self-employed so we discussed the self-discipline that requires, along with its benefits, such as impromptu afternoon meet-ups with neighbors.
We were into our second hour of talking about the cultural shifts we'd seen in our lifetimes when I declined a second glass because I had work to do, but we agreed a walk is in order sooner rather than later.
Once that work was finished, I got ready to go to the Valentine for this month's Community Conversation, "Re-RVA: Revitalizing, Recycling and Re-imagining," thrilled that the weather was still so warm for the walk there.
I didn't get two blocks before I ran into my new friend for the third time today, this time returning from a meeting. Now that we've met, I think we're going to find we run into each other a lot in that way you never notice someone until you meet them and then suddenly they're everywhere.
Walking in to the Valentine, director Bill Martin greeted me by asking, "Did you vote?" My voting sticker was still stuck to my walking shirt, so I explained how I had voted a party I detest. "Lots of my friends did that today, too," he assured me.
So I'm not the only one terrified of the future, I guess.
It was by far the smallest group for one of these conversations I've yet to see, a fact no doubt attributable to voting day, but it was a dedicated one. When Bill was talking about re-purposing, he showed an image of the architectural salvage store Caravatti's, asking who'd been there.
Practically every hand in the room shot up. "Gosh, this is a recycling crowd!" he said, sounding surprised. It was, too, with people there who had specific recycling bones to pick with the panel of experts who'd come to speak.
When we were shown images of old WWI and WWII posters, one showed a thrifty housewife doing her part by saving cooking grease, straining it, storing it in a cool place and then, "selling it to your meat dealer."
"Anyone here have a meat dealer?" Bill asked to laughter. No, but my Mom certainly had a grease can with a strainer she kept in the cabinet and reused its contents often.
Shucks, I guess that means we didn't have a meat dealer, either.
Breaking into our small groups, we discussed single stream recycling, compost company pick-ups and why the counties make it so difficult for their residents to recycle, with several people making the point that the problem is not what we recycle but the over-packaging and single-use serving mindset that's overtaken consumers.
Good luck changing that.
Walking home, the air was still warm and while I was hungry, I'd had my conversational jones satisfied earlier and I knew I should get home to work, so I decided to stop at the Cultured Swine for a quick meal.
While I'm waiting for my BLTotally Awesome, the cook asks the cashier to look at the impressive Tarheel taco he's working on, at how amazingly beautiful its presentation is. Of course I'm going to stand up and take a peek at the N.C.-style barbecue he's laid out on a tortilla in three perfect meaty mounds.
"Sometimes I impress myself," he jokes, before finishing the taco off with a mountain of coleslaw and Swine sauce, only to show it off again. "Damn, look at this! Now it's even prettier!"
I came awfully close to changing my order, but I'm a huge fan of his house bacon because it's so thickly sliced it almost crosses out of bacon territory, plus he serves it with the freshest of mixed greens on a a baguette, a combo I love.
By the time my sandwich came out, I was deep into an episode of "Twilight Zone" called "The Four of Us are Dying" about a guy who could change his face to elude people, except that didn't always work out for him when he ran into someone from the face's past, like the boxer's Dad who hated him for breaking his mothers heart by running off and ruining his girlfriend's life.
So despite my intention to grab and go, there I was happily drinking a glass bottle of Sprite (zero profit in glass recycling, by the way), eating my Awesome and watching '60s television after waking up to pose, voting Republican, going to a stranger's house and talking trash.
I'm sure this day could have gotten weirder, I'm just not sure how.
Tuesday, June 11, 2013
Primary Donut
Good neighbor, good citizen.
My daily walk has taken me right by Sugar Shack Donuts since it was nothing but a scroungy used car corner lot.
I watched daily as it was cleaned up, refitted and then nothing seemed to happen forever.
When I read that today was finally the day, I stuffed money in my bra and headed out to walk, knowing there'd be a treat to pick up along the way.
As I approached, I saw only two vehicles in the parking lot - a Dominion truck and a VCU truck, neither of which looked promising.
But inside, the place was buzzing with people, so apparently like me, they'd walked over.
Score one for my neighborhood donut shop.
The case held a mix of cake and yeast donuts as well as "outcasts," as they call them, like bear claws and other non-donut types.
Sadly, they were already sold out of my favorite, chocolate cake donuts.
Instead I chose a fresh orange zest-iced cake donut to go and asked the girl at the counter what today had been like.
They'd opened at 6 a.m. and long since run out of vegan and gluten-free donuts, not to mention other people's favorites.
Of course, now I have a reason to stop by again soon and see if they've got it.
Further down Leigh Street, I ran into the chef from Magpie, who also had plans to get neighborhood donuts before turning into Carver School to do my duty as a citizen.
Unlike a full election where they're expecting a big turnout, school was still in session with lots of excited children lined up to go to the cafeteria for lunch.
Me, I sailed right into the auditorium with my donut still bagged, stated my name, showed my ID and found out I was only the 47th voter of the morning.
Forty seven!
Considering the polls had opened an hour after Sugar Shack had, I had a feeling that far more people had been there than here.
Sadly.
All I'm saying is, I deserve the orange zest crumbs now on my mouth because I'm also wearing an "I Voted" sticker.
Come on, people, didn't your mother tell you, no donuts unless you vote?
My daily walk has taken me right by Sugar Shack Donuts since it was nothing but a scroungy used car corner lot.
I watched daily as it was cleaned up, refitted and then nothing seemed to happen forever.
When I read that today was finally the day, I stuffed money in my bra and headed out to walk, knowing there'd be a treat to pick up along the way.
As I approached, I saw only two vehicles in the parking lot - a Dominion truck and a VCU truck, neither of which looked promising.
But inside, the place was buzzing with people, so apparently like me, they'd walked over.
Score one for my neighborhood donut shop.
The case held a mix of cake and yeast donuts as well as "outcasts," as they call them, like bear claws and other non-donut types.
Sadly, they were already sold out of my favorite, chocolate cake donuts.
Instead I chose a fresh orange zest-iced cake donut to go and asked the girl at the counter what today had been like.
They'd opened at 6 a.m. and long since run out of vegan and gluten-free donuts, not to mention other people's favorites.
Of course, now I have a reason to stop by again soon and see if they've got it.
Further down Leigh Street, I ran into the chef from Magpie, who also had plans to get neighborhood donuts before turning into Carver School to do my duty as a citizen.
Unlike a full election where they're expecting a big turnout, school was still in session with lots of excited children lined up to go to the cafeteria for lunch.
Me, I sailed right into the auditorium with my donut still bagged, stated my name, showed my ID and found out I was only the 47th voter of the morning.
Forty seven!
Considering the polls had opened an hour after Sugar Shack had, I had a feeling that far more people had been there than here.
Sadly.
All I'm saying is, I deserve the orange zest crumbs now on my mouth because I'm also wearing an "I Voted" sticker.
Come on, people, didn't your mother tell you, no donuts unless you vote?
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