Vote

Once again, stories are cropping up: voter suppression in Virginia, annoying "robocalls" made for democratic candidates but paid for by the RNC, voters given the wrong voting location. There'll be more, and then there'll be litigation. Again. My father left the house at a quarter past five this morning--my father with the enlarged heart and the bone-on-bone hip--so he could contribute to the electoral process by standing in the elementary school gym until 2, helping and monitoring the vote. We've got the new optical scanning machines here this time, and at the training session Dad--who doesn't like to draw attention to himself in groups, and especially in groups of predominantly Republican peers--stood up and asked, "How do we know these vote counts can't be tampered with?" And the town clerk--a little old woman with thick glasses and tight curler curls--assured him it was a lock: "It's impossible to tamper with these machines," she said. "Really," she emphasized. She's what counts as the local expert.

I am not hopeful. There's been enough gall delivered directly, unapologetically to our faces for me to believe that what happens behind closed doors isn't even worse.

But that's worry for another hour. Today, we vote.