I must confess. I knowingly once committed voter
fraud.
And my co-conspirator was the lunch lady.
In June of 1976 I was 17 years old and had just
graduated from high school in a small town in Central Ohio. On primary day, June 8, I looked forward to
exercising my right to vote for the first time. Although at 17 I was not yet
voting age, anyone who would turn 18 by Election Day in November was eligible
to vote in the presidential primary. The
rest of the ballot was off limits. To vote for anything else was strictly
illegal.
For a 17 year old, I was reasonably politically aware.
The presidential race that year was the first post-Watergate, and President Gerald
Ford was facing a strong challenge from former California Governor Ronald
Reagan for the Republican nomination. Yet much to the consternation of my
father and most other relatives, I considered myself a Democrat, a rarity in
our community, and had followed the Democratic primary closely.
No fewer than fifteen Democratic candidates vied for
the nomination that year, ranging from the eventual winner, Georgia Governor Jimmy
Carter, to California Governor Jerry Brown, a half a dozen Senators including
West Virginia’s Robert Byrd, Indiana’s Birch Bayh, Henry Jackson of Washington,
Frank Church of Iowa, Texan Lloyd Bentsen and Oklahoma’s Fred Harris, plus former
ambassador and Kennedy crony Sargent Shriver, Utah Representative Mo Udall and
Alabama Governor and noted segregationist George Wallace.
I considered myself a Harris supporter, intrigued by
his call for “economic democracy,” his early opposition to the Vietnam War and
his populist approach – he stayed in voter’s homes during his campaign. But in
a primary season that began in January, Carter surprised by taking command
early. Harris dropped out in March and
many others soon after. By June 8, the last date of the primary season, Carter’s
nomination was a foregone conclusion.
Still, I was determined to exercise my right to vote.
By then, I liked Jerry Brown, but he’d been a late entry and wasn’t on the ballot
in Ohio. I grudgingly decided to back Mo Udall.
On the day of the primary I dutifully drove to the
polls in the township building at my old elementary school, a small rural school
that catered to farm families and where the fall harvest was a legitimate excuse
to miss class. Everyone knew each other, and I remember that when I walked into
the polls that day, the first face I saw was that of matronly Mrs. Huggett. She came from a farming family and was a
local institution. She was everybody’s
grandmother, the smiling “lunch lady” at our school, responsible for doling out
the tater tots, pizza burgers, canned peas and morning milk.
She greeted me warmly. “Hi Gary, let me check you in.
Nice to see you back from school.” The other women and men working the poll smiled
their What-a-nice-young man smiles.
Gary? I was
Glenn. Gary was my brother, older than me by four years and who I vaguely
resembled. I think he’d just finished
college in Minnesota and was celebrating by hitch-hiking all over Europe.
Before I had a chance to respond, she crossed Gary’s
name off the rolls and steered me toward a bank of voting machines that
contained the full ballot rather than the single machine reserved for 17 year
olds.
I said nothing.
Who was I to question Mrs. Huggett, who had fed me every school day for
six long years?
The automatic Rockwell voting machine was a
self-contained steel contraption on wheels with a built-in curtain that closed
when you entered. Before me were lists
of names, separated by office, each with a tiny black lever that registered the
vote.
I was thrilled.
Maybe now I’d get to vote against our local congressman, the one with a
name right out of Sherwood Anderson’s “Winesburg, Ohio.” That was Chalmers Pangburn
Wylie (pictured above), a longtime, ultra-conservative, do-nothing rubber stamp of a Republican.
His lone moment in the national spotlight would come a decade later when he
attached an amendment to a bill that cut funding for the Library of Congress in
the precise amount the Library spent producing the braille version of Playboy.
True story.
Alas, he wasn’t on the ballot. I then realized that,
this being a primary, I was only allowed to vote for candidate of a single
party. I dutifully pulled the lever that activated the Democratic slate.
There wasn’t much to choose from. As far as I can determine the only primaries other
than that for presidency was for the U.S. Senate and the state supreme court.
Still, the my lot was cast and there was no turning
back. After some hesitation and a sentimental moment considering whether to
write in either Fred Harris or Jerry Brown, I skipped over Carter and Jackson
and Church and George Wallace and pulled the lever, first for Udall and then
for the slate of delegates and alternates that supported him. Then I committed, that’s right, voter fraud, pulling the lever for
Howard Metzenbaum for U.S. Senate, and some name for each of two openings for
the state Supreme Court.
Barely a minute after in entered the booth, I pulled
back the curtain. My co-conspirator,
Mrs. Huggett, waved a cheerful goodbye.
Fortunately, the statute of limitations for my
offense has long since expired and democracy survived my moral transgression.
Still, I apologize. Especially to Mrs. Huggett.
