Elections in a small town

 

     Voting.  It's one of those responsibilities that comes with the privilege of being an American.  I remember very vividly when I finally was able to go vote for the first time. How proud I was to have a part in voting for the President, and I somehow felt that my vote helped him actually win! 
     In a small town, voting is quite different.  If you were to run for some kind of public office, you would go to the court house and announce your bid to run and then begin your campaign.  If you wanted to "make friends and influence people" you would most likely put an ad in the local paper first, just to get your name out there.  You would then make a bunch of signs (spray painted on cardboard or plywood is the norm) and drive around the area to ask if you can put them in people's yards. If the race were very close, we would be able to tell who was "winning" by who had the most signs around town.  You would know that the most prominent places to put your signs would be at the 4-way stop in the middle of town, and outside of each cafe' and bar.  If you had some extra campaign funds, you  might be able to rent the flashing message board outside of the hair salon right next to the 4-way stop. Everyone in the county drives past there.  You might get really inventive and paint a large message on your back fence, house roof, or the side of your barn or your pickup.  If you really wanted to get on people's good side, you would order cheap pens with your campaign slogan on them and go door-to-door handing them out.
     When voting day finally arrives, each citizen goes to their respective polling place. It may be in a church, library or fire station.  The election volunteers get things ready the night before. They dig out the old, musty, red, white and blue striped curtains and drape them over the thin aluminum frames that stand in one corner of the room.  There are long tables set up near the entrance to the room where the election officials sit to check you in. 
     When you arrive, you may have to wait in line, especially if it is over the lunch hour.  You will pull up to the polling place and see several pickups (many with dogs in the back patiently waiting for their owners).  You will stand and chat about the weather and the crops this year while you wait your turn.  As you approach the election check-in, if the worker recognizes you, you don't need to show your picture ID.  They love to say "personal recognizance", as if they have been practicing those words for awhile.  They then announce (seemingly to the whole room), "republican" or "democrat", so the other person knows which ballot to hand you. You then take your ballot to one of the voting booths and shut the curtain behind you.
     There are no computerized voting machines. We have never used  punch cards nor had a problem with hanging chads.  When you pull the curtain behind you, there is nothing there but a thin Sharpie marker with which to mark your ballot that was handed to you. After you vote, you carry your ballot to the box and hand it in.  If your kids are with you they fight over who gets to put it in the slot.
     And then the wait begins.  The election officials are often busy until late into the night counting the ballots and calling in results.  Usually by the 10 o'clock news, they know the results.
     This last election was right in the middle of spring planting.  The farmers were all more than busy preparing and planting their fields before the next rain. There was no time to run into town to vote.  I was listening to some of the results on the radio the next morning. Here are a few excerpts: (Names of places and people were changed!)   "In the race for city alderman of Noville, the incumbent, Mr. Smith received 3 votes with Mr. Jones receiving 10.  Mr. Doe was a write-in receiving 2 votes." ( I wondered if it were he and his wife that voted for him!) 
     The announcer continued: "In the race for mayor of Hooperton, the top vote getters were Mr. Williams  and Mr. Michaels each receiving 50% of the vote with 1 vote a piece. The clerk announced that the results were contested and there will be a recount."..............but, you'll get that in a small town.

 

Adventures in Redneckhood: Episode #471

    I got to add another notch to my belt today.  I have been keeping a running tally in my head of all the redneck type activities that I have participated in since marrying my country boy.  Today topped the "Chevy Water Pump in the Kitchen Sink" incident by far.
     We had a pickup truck that apparently had the transmission go out this weekend. Of course it  happened in a town about 30 miles away.  The truck sat at a business over the weekend and so we had to go take care of it today. 
     We drove over there, hoping that the feared diagnosis wasn't true and that we would be able to just drive it home.  Stephen hopped in and started it, and, much to the delight of the crew with me, it took off down the road.  We stopped about 50 yards later and pulled off.  He couldn't get it far enough off the road, so I had to push him with my vehicle.   Fun.
     After much consideration and adding several bottles of cure-all that were suggested by some of his favorite car experts, we realized that there was only one thing to do. Since the truck would only go in reverse, that would be how we had to get it home. We figured out the best, most remote back roads to take.  I started singing: "Country roads, take me home."

     We consulted the GPS, (thankfully it had even the dirt roads on its map!), and charted our course.  Stephen led, and I followed.  He in reverse, me going forward, hazards flashing.

    

    

     When we were first sitting alongside the road, there were many cars passing us wondering what was going on.  Once we got going, we thankfully saw hardly any cars.  When one did pass us for the first time, the driver craning his neck to try and figure out what was going on, Stephen and I just grinned at each other.  Let them guess.
     Stephen is an expert at driving in reverse. He gets that from his many hours spent pushing snow in parking lots-- back and forth, back and forth.  However, I could tell his neck was getting tired after the first several miles. 
     It took us about an hour and a half to make a trip that usually takes us about 25 minutes. We drove many roads that I had never been on before.  We got a grand tour of all the farm land between Keokuk and Kahoka.  I'm sure we will be the fodder of many an interesting conversation over the neighboring fence as one farmer asks another, "Hey, did you see what drove past yesterday?"  Of course, our vehicles proudly advertise "S & D Seamless Gutters" on the side.  'Wonder how many calls we'll get from that area as a result?
     Our kids kept worrying that a policeman might see us.  I wondered what they might be able to stop us for. Maybe improper lane usage?  Maybe just driving too slowly?  I'm glad we didn't have to find out.
     We stopped just before reaching our town and added a tow rope and I pulled him the rest of the way.  We've seen many other vehicles pulled through town like that to know that it was all right. 
     Now the dilemma faces us, fixing the transmission.    I am starting to imagine more nights cooped up in the damp basement, Dr. D bent over a greasy pile of cogs and gears.  I, his trusty assistant, handing him his tools and holding the light trained on the interior of the beast.  Sounds like another episode of "Night of the Killer Transmission" is on its way.   But, you'll get that in a small town.

The Old Country Church

The first church my dad pastored. I was "born" in this church.

"Oh, I'd like to go back

To that old country church,

Just to hear the songs of praise.

How the people would sing,

It would make the heavens ring,

At that old country church"

"Leaning, leaning, safe and secure from all alarms.

Leaning, leaning, leaning on the everlasting arms."

"Come to the church by the wild wood
Oh, come to the church in the vale
No spot is so dear to my childhood
As the little brown church in the vale"

 

"Blessed assurance, Jesus is mine.

Oh, what a foretaste of glory divine.

Heir of salvation, Purchase of God.

Born of His spirit, washed in His blood."



The first church I remember being in.  I was "reborn" in this church.



"Now the years have gone by,
And so many have died,
At that old country church,
But they're on the other shore,
Where they'll sing forevermore,
As they did at that old country church!"

"I'm redeemed, by love divine,
Glory, glory, Christ is mine!
All to Him I now resign.
I have been, I have been redeemed"
At that old country church!



Conviction

    

     On a cold November morning in 2010, our sleepy little community woke to a buzz of new gossip floating around.  It seems that a body had been found along the river.  The local cafe and the hair salons were extremely busy as people from town headed to where they knew they would hear some information.  We knew who the victim was, and there was speculation as to who the perpetrator was.  Phones were more than busy, texts were running rampant and ears were on high alert as we waited to hear more. 

     It was rumored that it was one of our own members of the community that had committed the crime.  Someone who had grown up with us, lived among us, spent time with our kids, sat at our kitchen table. 

As more details of the crime were uncovered, the story began to form. We wonder how he thought he would get away with it.

    

 Did he forget that he was from a small town?

Did he forget that even though this sleepy little town seems like Mayberry, the police are just a phone call away from leading pathologists and forensics experts?

Did he forget that anger and alcohol don't mix and that one's true character is revealed in a fit of passion?

 

Did he forget that his pastor and Sunday School teachers once taught him: "Be sure your sin will find you out"?

Did he forget that in a small town people will stand up for anyone they call kin?

Did he forget that even small town folk still have faith in the court system and believe that crime must be punished?

Did he forget that in a small town someone is ALWAYS watching?

     On February 29, 2012, a jury of his peers, after only 2 hours of deliberation, looked past friendship and favors and found the young man guilty of first degree murder.   Justice was served .... you'll get that in a small town. 

FFA Week

    



High school parking lot.



     This week was National FFA week.  For those of you who don't live in a rural area, you probably have no clue what I am talking about.  FFA stands for "Future Farmers of America" and is a vital part of the education system in a farm community. From what I understand, FFA is like 4-H--on steroids.  It is an agriculturally geared program to keep young people involved and interested in agriculture.  Every February, they celebrate this program with a series of events to keep the young people interested in the program and to recruit others to join.

     I looked up some information about the FFA and was quite pleased to read their pledge that they are required to memorize.  It includes such phrases as: "I believe in the future of agriculture with a faith not born of words, but of deeds.." and "I believe that to live and work on a good farm....is pleasant as well as challenging.." or "I believe in less dependence on begging.....".  Wow, if only we could instill those values in others across the country.
     Basically, FFA week is a celebration of the agricultural way of life.  A time to reflect on the values and ethics that the hard working farmer knows.  And the school students have fun ways of doing this.  They started the week out with attending a church service together.  They then have different themes for each day of the week.  Tuesday was "camo" day where they all wore their camoflauge clothing.  They had a dress-up day where the FFA members wore their uniforms and took time to present the program to the elementary age students.  I heard many of the officers from the surrounding communities interviewed on the local radio station.
     I was never involved in FFA, though I was in small town schools all of my life.  I never had the privilege of competing on the national level in contests covering different agriculturally related themes. I heard one young lady interviewed telling about the Dairy Foods contest. She had to know, by taste, different cheeses, milks, etc. as well as their grade and quality.  I was impressed.  I don't think I could do that.
     One of my favorite parts of FFA week is always on Friday.  They call it "Drive your Tractor to school" day.  My kids wait at the front door in anticipation of all the kids driving into town with their family's machinery and parading them from the town square, down Main Street to the high school.  I apologize for the blurriness of these pictures, but these kids are really trucking, full throttle down the street!



        I think it turns out to be somewhat of a competition among the teen guys, (what among teen guys isn't a competition?).  See for yourself:

                                                          The dirtiest.

                                                                          The oldest.

                                            The coldest. (It was about 20 degrees out that morning!)

                                          Of course, the one with the most wheels wins!

                                           Or, would that be the one with no wheels?

                                     And, of course, the smallest, brought by the class clown, no doubt!

    

     I do have to mention that these we not just driven by young men, but several were driven by young ladies.  The FFA is not just for guys! The local chapter is headed by an equal amount of guys and girls.

      I got to thinking about this whole scenario the other night and envisioned teen sons asking their dads, "Hey, Dad, can I drive that $125,000 piece of vital farm equipment you have out in the shed to school tomorrow?  We're just going to tear up and down the streets of Kahoka for awhile before school starts." I then wondered about them having to calculate the mph and the miles to town and figure how early they would have to leave the house in order to get to school in time.  

      I asked my husband (who worked several years for a farmer) if he would let his son do that and he immediately replied "Yes!".  So, I have come to the conlusion that a tractor is so much more than just a piece of equipment. It represents years of hard work and the rewards of that work.  It is more than a hobby, it is a way of life and FFA week celebrates the glory of the farmer and his commitment to doing things right; to working harder than any other occupation; to giving ones all, even when the yield may not be all you expect it to be. 

     So, FFA members, we salute you this week.  We are grateful for your commitment to the American farmer and the way of life that started this country.  We love the work ethic that constitutes your being and the pleasure that comes from doing your best and reaping the benefits.  But most of all, we love your tractor parades and look forward to them every year...........but, you'll get that in a small town!

The General Store

     Okay, I know what picture just popped into your mind right now.  You are thinking of the Old West and the only store in town where miners and settlers went to get their monthly supplies.  You are seeing barrels of flour and pickles, big glass jars of candy and displays of prairie fabrics, farm tools and wagon wheels.  There are burlap sacks of sugar stacked next to the glass display cases of jewelry and knives.  There is an older gentleman with a white mustache and a visor on his head.  Sorry to disappoint you, but, as nice as it would be, there is not a store like this in our small town.
     The General Store in our area is invisible.  It goes out across the radio waves everyday on our local radio station.  Every weekday from 9:00 a.m. to 10:00 a.m. the station opens up the phone lines and people can call in to "buy, sell, or trade" almost anything they wish. 
     There are certain ground rules for the general store.  At the beginning of the program they make sure that you know that you cannot sell guns, ammunition or pharmaceuticals.  You also have to tell where you are calling from.   The announcers also make sure you know that you have to turn your radio volume down as they will get major feedback while you are on the phone.  If I had a nickel for the many, many times I have heard the announcer holler "Turn your radio down" to a caller who didn't comply....
     When you call, you don't need to give your name, just your phone number, the town you are calling from and what it is you want to sell, give away or want to buy. It's fun to listen for familiar voices of people you know and what they are trying to sell or find.  People also like to announce friends and relatives birthdays by way of this program.  I have heard birthdays announced for people as far away as Georgia.  'Not sure the purpose in announcing that birthday, as the one celebrating won't get to have the novelty of hearing their name announced on the airwaves!  I guess it's kind of a joke to be the one to call in and announce someones birthday, and their age.  I don't think I would think it was funny.
     The problem with the General Store is that people view it as some kind of Santa Claus.  If they tell what they are looking for, then maybe someone will have that exact item and sell it to them for next to nothing.  Here is an example that I heard one time:
     Announcer: "Caller number 25, you're on the air. Where are you calling from?"
     Caller: " I'm calling from ______________."
     Announcer: "Go ahead with your item"
     Caller: "Yeah, I'm needing a couch in like-new condition.  I'm looking for one that is medium blue with a
     small floral pattern.  It must be from a pet-free and smoke-free home. I can pay about $25."

  I'd be really surprised if they even got a call back on that one. 
    
     One caller broke the rules and tried selling a gun.  The announcer let him get through his whole description, price and phone number before he told him that they were not allowed to sell firearms over the radio waves.  The announcer did make sure that everyone knew what the phone number was and even repeated it several times.
     I have used the General Store a few times.  I had a very old, upright piano that I was getting rid of.  This thing was a monster and taking up too much space in my house, so I called in 2 days in a row, telling people that it was in tune, and played well, and that I was just giving it away.  I waited and waited for the phone to ring and received no calls.  Finally, on the third day, I called and announced the same piano, but was asking $25 for it.  Immediately the phone rang and I sold it on the spot.  Weird.
     In a small town area, you get those who like to debate as well. I'm sure the General Store is not supposed to be a venue for political debate, but a few years ago, during a presidential campaign, the announcer and a caller got into a very heated discussion about the positives and negatives of a certain candidate. The announcer was accused of talking down on this candidate (he had mentioned the debate from the night before in passing).   I heard the announcer apologize later, but it was rather tense for a few moments. 
     I have heard everything from tractors to prom dresses sold on the air. Sometimes there is an unspoken story with an item that is sold, like a brand new wedding dress.  It's surprising what people have to sell and what prices they ask for them.  But, we all want something for nothing, don't we? And, you'll get that in a small town.....
    
    

Hail to the Indians!

     Yes, it's that time of year again and the basketball season is in full swing.  The little wooden footballs that were hung on the electric poles throughout town have now been replaced with little basketballs with the names of the players on them.  Red is the color of the day as the Indians prepare for battle.  Last weeks local paper had the pictures of all the players and their positions listed in the paper along with a schedule of the games to be played.  It's an important part of small town life and it keeps the winter blues away. 

     In honor of the Clark County Indians, I am posting a picture to boost their morale.  My husband and I found a book from 1914 in the walls of our old house and this picture was inside:

     This was the Kahoka Basketball team of 1914.  The game sure has come a long way since then. Doesn't it make you grateful for the inventions of polyester, weight lifting and Nike?? 

     So, here's a shout out to the team for a great season.  Wonder if those old uniforms are still around somewhere??  Maybe we should find them for a reunion of some sort..........but you'll get that in a small town.