October 21, 2008--The Ladies of Forest Trace: McCain & Mary
My 100 year-old mother was all excited. She and the other ladies at Forest Trace in Florida had received their absentee ballots.
The day before they had been upset. The ballot was supposed to include two envelopes—one in which to mail the ballot back and the other, to be placed inside the first, was to enable them to cast their ballot secretly since it was supposed to have nothing on it that could be used to identify voters. Missing, however, was the privacy envelope. And, she and the “girls” were concerned, the outer envelope not only included their names and some sort of coded number but also had “Dem” printed on it. Suspicious as they had a right to be after 2000 when many of them had hung the chads that elected George Bush, thinking the local Republicans in charge of the election process were up to their old shenanigans, they called the Democratic Party office and got things straightened out.
But that’s not why she was excited yesterday when she called.
Perhaps because of more hanky-panky, she reported that the paper ballot was eight pages long, full of all sorts of amendments and propositions, as she put it, “none of which I understood.” And she said, “It wasn’t until the very end where you were to vote for president.”
“Why is that a problem?” I wondered out loud.
“Because when you’re our age, which I hope one day you’ll see, eight pages is a lot to go through. It’s easy to get confused and give up before you get to the place where you vote.”
This in fact did sound like a potential shenanigan—what, after all is the meaning of the phrase, when describing presidential candidates, as their being “at the top of the ballot” and “heading the ticket”? She was right. Shouldn’t those running for the presidency be more than metaphorically at the top of the ballot?
“So what did you do? I know you solved the envelope problem. But this sounds much more serious. I can’t imagine they’re going to print a different version of the absentee ballot.”
“I already checked and of course they’re not going to. We’ll just have to deal with it.” I knew she at least was more than capable of doing that. “But what about some of the ladies who you say have trouble reading the newspaper because of their eyesight? Or those who you tell me are getting more and more confused?” “Confused” was her euphemism for those slipping into Alzheimer’s.
“We’re working on it. The girls who are still with it are organizing ourselves to help the others fill out their ballots.”
“What a great idea.” They continue to amaze me. “How is it working? Are people letting you do this? After all, it’s supposed to be a secret ballot.”
“No problem. Those who are very private and don’t want us to know who they’re voting for just have us show them how to fill it out but then ask us to turn aside when they mark the paper and put it in the second envelope. I told you, didn’t I, that we solved that problem last week?”
“Yes, mom, you did.”
“But this is not why I called this morning.” She still sounded excited. Did I ever tell you about little Mary who lives here? Poor thing. She lost her husband six months ago. They were such lovebirds. When they would have a musician come here to play some of the old songs for us, she and her Joe were always the first ones to dance. How they clung to each other. It was beautiful to see. And not because they had to to keep her from falling and breaking her hip. But because of how much they loved each other. Most of the girls would get teary from watching them.
“Well, I don’t remember if I told you, she has cataracts and is afraid of the operation. Though I had mine done years ago and it’s wonderful. All I had was a little discomfort from the stitch. To tell you the truth, I think after Joe left her I she lost her will to live.”
“So she was having trouble with the ballot?” I wanted to get back to the election.
“Exactly. And as I told you, we have ourselves organized and I offered to help her with it. Which she was happy about.”
“Excellent. Barack Obama can use every vote he can get, especially in Florida where things are still very close.”
“Well, this is not exactly what happened. But if you would stop rushing me—I assume like the other day you’re racing to a meeting—I’ll tell you what happened. I’m an old lady and sometimes it takes me a little while to tell my stories.”
“I’m fine with the time, mom. Sorry. And you’re the least old lady 100 year-old that I know.”
“How many others do you know to compare me with?” She had me there. Just her sister Fay who had lived to 102 and was pretty remarkable.
“Here’s what happened. I was talking her through all the pages of propositions that I told you about, which I had to learn about so I could help people with their ballots. Some want to go over everything. What else do they have to do with their time?
“Well, in Mary’s case she was only interested in the president but while I was turning the pages for her, I asked her, as I do with the others I help, who she was voting for. Here, after some of the girls who were angry with Obama for beating Hillary, some said they were voting for McCain. But now after they know more about him and that woman from Alaska, who we all despise,” that was the word she used, despised, which was uncharacteristic of her, “by now they’ve all come around to voting Democratic. But I still want to know who they are voting for, to make sure, since I’m such a big Obama supporter. I want to be sure so in case they are still undecided I can try to convince them about how special he is and how now with some much going wrong, how much we need him.”
“And Mary?” I interjected to get her back to her own story.
“I’m getting to that if you can only be patient. As I was talking her through the ballot, she told me that she wanted me to help her vote for McCain. Can you believe that? When she told me that I stopped where we were, it might have been on page six, to ask her why. She told me, and this didn’t entirely surprise me since I’ve heard the same thing from a few others. She told me she can’t vote for a ‘Colored.’ That’s exactly how she put it.”
“Ugh,” I said.
“But you know me, I tried to get her to see how much better Obama is for seniors. His healthcare program, his views on Social Security, on pensions, on everything that I know the old people care about—only things that concern them personally. That they care about today. So many don’t think about the future. With some of them I talk about how they should vote for their grandchildren. Like that adorable Sandra Silverstein girl is saying on TV. The one who is schlepping the vote. Do you know about that?”
“Yes, mom, I do. It’s ‘Sarah Silverman.’”
“Yes, she’s the one. That’s who she is. You see, as I tell you, I have no memory any more.”
“I should have your problems.”
“Well, this is neither here-nor-there. With Mary I tried and I tried but she would have none of it. She kept saying ‘I’m too old to be voting for a Colored. Who’s he going to appoint that Sharpton?’ Can you believe that?”
“Unfortunately I can. This is a real problem among older people. Some can be very prejudiced. It’s very upsetting. Especially with those people who have in their own lives seen the results of racial hatred. You were just telling me about that the other day. About some who are Holocaust survivors.”
“Don’t you want to hear about Mary? About what I did?”
“Sorry, of course I do. You see I too can lose track of things.”
“After about ten minutes of trying to convince her I was so angry with her that I handed her back the ballot, got up, and told her, ‘You’re on your own. You may be too old to vote for a Colored,’ I threw that word back at her, ‘but I’m too old to help someone as prejudiced as you vote for someone like McCain.’”
“And I couldn’t help adding as I left, ‘Just think for a moment what he and that Cindy of his really think about people like us.’”
“Good for you!”
“And by the way, how many outfits and hairdos do you think she has?”
Mary? I don’t think I ever met her.”
“No, Cindy. I’m talking about Cindy McCain. When people don't have the money to shop at Walmart, I’ve never seen her wear the same thing twice.”
The day before they had been upset. The ballot was supposed to include two envelopes—one in which to mail the ballot back and the other, to be placed inside the first, was to enable them to cast their ballot secretly since it was supposed to have nothing on it that could be used to identify voters. Missing, however, was the privacy envelope. And, she and the “girls” were concerned, the outer envelope not only included their names and some sort of coded number but also had “Dem” printed on it. Suspicious as they had a right to be after 2000 when many of them had hung the chads that elected George Bush, thinking the local Republicans in charge of the election process were up to their old shenanigans, they called the Democratic Party office and got things straightened out.
But that’s not why she was excited yesterday when she called.
Perhaps because of more hanky-panky, she reported that the paper ballot was eight pages long, full of all sorts of amendments and propositions, as she put it, “none of which I understood.” And she said, “It wasn’t until the very end where you were to vote for president.”
“Why is that a problem?” I wondered out loud.
“Because when you’re our age, which I hope one day you’ll see, eight pages is a lot to go through. It’s easy to get confused and give up before you get to the place where you vote.”
This in fact did sound like a potential shenanigan—what, after all is the meaning of the phrase, when describing presidential candidates, as their being “at the top of the ballot” and “heading the ticket”? She was right. Shouldn’t those running for the presidency be more than metaphorically at the top of the ballot?
“So what did you do? I know you solved the envelope problem. But this sounds much more serious. I can’t imagine they’re going to print a different version of the absentee ballot.”
“I already checked and of course they’re not going to. We’ll just have to deal with it.” I knew she at least was more than capable of doing that. “But what about some of the ladies who you say have trouble reading the newspaper because of their eyesight? Or those who you tell me are getting more and more confused?” “Confused” was her euphemism for those slipping into Alzheimer’s.
“We’re working on it. The girls who are still with it are organizing ourselves to help the others fill out their ballots.”
“What a great idea.” They continue to amaze me. “How is it working? Are people letting you do this? After all, it’s supposed to be a secret ballot.”
“No problem. Those who are very private and don’t want us to know who they’re voting for just have us show them how to fill it out but then ask us to turn aside when they mark the paper and put it in the second envelope. I told you, didn’t I, that we solved that problem last week?”
“Yes, mom, you did.”
“But this is not why I called this morning.” She still sounded excited. Did I ever tell you about little Mary who lives here? Poor thing. She lost her husband six months ago. They were such lovebirds. When they would have a musician come here to play some of the old songs for us, she and her Joe were always the first ones to dance. How they clung to each other. It was beautiful to see. And not because they had to to keep her from falling and breaking her hip. But because of how much they loved each other. Most of the girls would get teary from watching them.
“Well, I don’t remember if I told you, she has cataracts and is afraid of the operation. Though I had mine done years ago and it’s wonderful. All I had was a little discomfort from the stitch. To tell you the truth, I think after Joe left her I she lost her will to live.”
“So she was having trouble with the ballot?” I wanted to get back to the election.
“Exactly. And as I told you, we have ourselves organized and I offered to help her with it. Which she was happy about.”
“Excellent. Barack Obama can use every vote he can get, especially in Florida where things are still very close.”
“Well, this is not exactly what happened. But if you would stop rushing me—I assume like the other day you’re racing to a meeting—I’ll tell you what happened. I’m an old lady and sometimes it takes me a little while to tell my stories.”
“I’m fine with the time, mom. Sorry. And you’re the least old lady 100 year-old that I know.”
“How many others do you know to compare me with?” She had me there. Just her sister Fay who had lived to 102 and was pretty remarkable.
“Here’s what happened. I was talking her through all the pages of propositions that I told you about, which I had to learn about so I could help people with their ballots. Some want to go over everything. What else do they have to do with their time?
“Well, in Mary’s case she was only interested in the president but while I was turning the pages for her, I asked her, as I do with the others I help, who she was voting for. Here, after some of the girls who were angry with Obama for beating Hillary, some said they were voting for McCain. But now after they know more about him and that woman from Alaska, who we all despise,” that was the word she used, despised, which was uncharacteristic of her, “by now they’ve all come around to voting Democratic. But I still want to know who they are voting for, to make sure, since I’m such a big Obama supporter. I want to be sure so in case they are still undecided I can try to convince them about how special he is and how now with some much going wrong, how much we need him.”
“And Mary?” I interjected to get her back to her own story.
“I’m getting to that if you can only be patient. As I was talking her through the ballot, she told me that she wanted me to help her vote for McCain. Can you believe that? When she told me that I stopped where we were, it might have been on page six, to ask her why. She told me, and this didn’t entirely surprise me since I’ve heard the same thing from a few others. She told me she can’t vote for a ‘Colored.’ That’s exactly how she put it.”
“Ugh,” I said.
“But you know me, I tried to get her to see how much better Obama is for seniors. His healthcare program, his views on Social Security, on pensions, on everything that I know the old people care about—only things that concern them personally. That they care about today. So many don’t think about the future. With some of them I talk about how they should vote for their grandchildren. Like that adorable Sandra Silverstein girl is saying on TV. The one who is schlepping the vote. Do you know about that?”
“Yes, mom, I do. It’s ‘Sarah Silverman.’”
“Yes, she’s the one. That’s who she is. You see, as I tell you, I have no memory any more.”
“I should have your problems.”
“Well, this is neither here-nor-there. With Mary I tried and I tried but she would have none of it. She kept saying ‘I’m too old to be voting for a Colored. Who’s he going to appoint that Sharpton?’ Can you believe that?”
“Unfortunately I can. This is a real problem among older people. Some can be very prejudiced. It’s very upsetting. Especially with those people who have in their own lives seen the results of racial hatred. You were just telling me about that the other day. About some who are Holocaust survivors.”
“Don’t you want to hear about Mary? About what I did?”
“Sorry, of course I do. You see I too can lose track of things.”
“After about ten minutes of trying to convince her I was so angry with her that I handed her back the ballot, got up, and told her, ‘You’re on your own. You may be too old to vote for a Colored,’ I threw that word back at her, ‘but I’m too old to help someone as prejudiced as you vote for someone like McCain.’”
“And I couldn’t help adding as I left, ‘Just think for a moment what he and that Cindy of his really think about people like us.’”
“Good for you!”
“And by the way, how many outfits and hairdos do you think she has?”
Mary? I don’t think I ever met her.”
“No, Cindy. I’m talking about Cindy McCain. When people don't have the money to shop at Walmart, I’ve never seen her wear the same thing twice.”
posted by Steven Zwerling at
1:41 PM
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