Voting worth it despite the failings

By Kurt Ullrich

It's 6 in the morning, and I'm wondering if driving into the nearby town to vote is worth the effort.

My little white cat Portia sits at my feet as I make coffee. She wants me to stay with her for a few moments while she eats from her green depression-glass dish, so I do. We don't discuss the election here in Iowa, though I do tell her that Iowa is one of only 10 or so states with a primary election this day, June 8.

She yawns as I talk, and I understand.

It's an olive-drab sort of day, one that promises rain and misery here in the Midwest, and I hope the weather is better in California, Arizona, Nevada and other places where good folks are schlepping to the polls.

I arrive at my polling place in the courthouse shortly after it opens. A custodian traipses from office to office, finishing up the collection of yesterday's detritus.

Three very serious elderly women guide me through the process and none of it feels as joyous and liberating as it ought.

When I'm in town around other human beings, the urge to simply cancel my voter registration is strong, a misanthropic and irrational response to a system that fails expectations on every level, yet usually works for a majority of citizens.

The vanity that we call politics is ultimately about what is best for the populace, and it's a system into which we've bought; thus, not voting can never truly be an option.

Voters shuffle in, slightly stooped and a little disconsolate-looking. An elderly voter drops to one knee to complete his voter form on a folding table and asks a poll worker, “How do you spell ‘Democratic'?”

It's time to head back to the woods.

Five geese fly low overhead on the drive home, chatting as they wing their way north.

A wild turkey scampers across the lane leading down to the house. She squawks and gives me a “who in hell are you?” look as she passes.

Later, I'll head out into the woods with my ax and bow saw. Some thinning of the trees marching down a nearby hillside is a task even politics and the rain can't stop.

Heating up another cup of coffee, I watch rain pelt the cedar trees outside the window. It's quiet here and no one is asking me to confirm my date of birth.

Portia is nowhere to be found. Later, I'll tell her about my trip to town, why it was important.

Kurt Ullrich is a freelance writer who lives in rural Jackson County. His work has appeared in several major daily newspapers in Iowa and nationwide. Comments: whisperhollowfarm@msn.com