Originally published on 5/14/2015
I went to the firehouse with my father when he voted for Adlai Stevenson in 1956. I was eight. We got up early. My father wore a tie. Voting was serious business. It was something you wore a tie to do.
My mother voted later that day. My parents usually went to the polls together, but that day in 1956 my mother had made arrangements to drive two neighbors to the firehouse to vote. They were older ladies, both widows who didn’t drive. My father said later that he was sure they’d voted for Eisenhower and cancelled out my parents’ votes
I’m sure I didn’t realize it at the time, but my father voted for Stevenson four years earlier. He’d lost to Eisenhower then, but my father seemed optimistic about his chances that day. Later, probably when I was old enough to vote, my father told me he was amazed each time Stevenson lost. The choice had seemed so clear.
The people at the tables inside the firehouse were neighbors. They said hello to my father and smiled at me. My father signed the book. I waited while he went into the voting booth and closed the curtain. After he voted he pulled the lever and the curtain swung open. He came out smiling.
We stopped at the diner on the way home. My father had coffee. I had hot chocolate and a crumb bun. People in the diner were talking about the election. They weren’t arguing. They were just talking. It was something they were interested in, something they had a stake in.
The schools were closed, and I had a day off. My father went to work. My mother drove the neighbors to the polls. The next day we read in the newspaper that Eisenhower had been re-elected.
I started voting as soon as I was old enough to do it. I’ve been voting ever since, in presidential elections, mid-term elections, off-year elections, municipal elections, special elections, primaries, referenda, and anything else you can think of. My father said that only about 50% of the people vote but 100% of the people complain about things between elections. He was right, but the number of people who vote is even lower now. And people don’t seem to take their kids with them when they vote. I registered to vote on the Monday after my twenty-first birthday. You had to be 21 to vote then. It was before the voting age was lowered to 18 by the Twenty-Sixth Amendment. I think I would have registered on my birthday, but it was on a Saturday in the middle of the Thanksgiving weekend and the Registrar’s Office was closed.
Voting is important. Elections have consequences. I learned that from my parents that day in 1956 and a lot of other days. In November of 1972 I carried my six-week-old daughter to a school gym and held her while I voted for George McGovern. It’s a family tradition.
This column is provided by the Democratic Town Committee.