A Walker in the Suburbs

I knew I should have voted yesterday morning, but I went for a walk instead. And when there was a meet-and-greet at the end of the day, an important one featuring our board members, I went to that, too, knowing I couldn’t stay long, but also knowing I have a way of letting time slip by.

Which is what happened. When I looked at my watch, it was 5:20’ish (I love my watch, but it’s a small oblong tank-style timepiece that’s never been easy to read), so I said a hasty good-bye, grabbed my things and dashed off into the cold rain. If I ran to the bus stop I could make the 5:30. I did, but I didn’t. A long 10 minutes later the ART 43 pulled up. By then it was 5:40. The polls in Virginia close at 7 p.m. It would be close.

The Metro gods were with me, and I reached Vienna before Marketplace was over at 6:30. I didn’t want to know the exact time because it would make me more nervous. So I turned down the radio and drove off into the night, which is when things went south. I caught every red light. On the winding, two-lane section of my route (which is much of it), I drove behind a car going 20 m.p.h. in a 35-m.p.h. zone. I was practicing all the deep-breathing, perspective-giving tricks I knew, but I was still in panic mode.

I knew that putting Democrat Ralph Northam over the top was not only my job, that other Virginians were taking this seriously, too. But embedded in my mind were the close votes of the past: Keane and Florio in New Jersey in the 1981. The 2000 presidential election. I’m a big believer in every vote making a difference — because every vote does — and mine was stuck behind a driver who must have cast his ballot in the morning.

When I pulled up to the polling place I still had no idea what time it was, but I knew there were only minutes, if not seconds. Someone yelled “you still have time” as I sprinted toward the school, but I still expected the door to be locked.

But ahhhh, it wasn’t. And ahhhh, the nice people at the registration desk were still there, calmly asking my name, which I calmly gave. And then I took my precious paper ballot over to the table, carefully filled in the five circles, and slid the paper into the machine.

“Have a good evening,” said the man at the door, as he handed me an “I voted” sticker. Only then could I glance at my phone for the exact time. It was 7:00 p.m. on the dot.

It’s July 5, and last night’s revels seem far away. It’s a day of sodden flags, old watermelon rinds, the burnt casings of a bottle rocket. The smoke has cleared but we’ve lost our brilliant reds and greens.

Last night at the block party in Suzanne’s Arlington neighborhood where we watched the fireworks, a man in a tricornered hat read aloud the Declaration of Independence. The mic he was using kept fading in and out, so that he was forced to pepper his recitation with the words “testing, testing.”

It was an interesting interjection as we “test, test” our resolve to become a more perfect union and we’re “tested, tested” by a divisiveness unknown in my lifetime.

Now that I think of it, “testing, testing” isn’t a bad motto to have as we strive to make ourselves heard, to make ourselves whole. Our nation is a work in progress, always “testing, testing.” Seeing it that way is a good way to celebrate July 5.

The trip from Lexington to my house can seem long, especially when mired in West Virginia, but it is in fact less than one-tenth of the way across the country. And it’s the width of the country that’s on my mind this morning: the roundabouts and the rodeos, the skyscrapers and the silos, the breadth and depth.

I like to think that our strength lies in our breadth, in our differences and how we’ve been able to assimilate them. E pluribus unum — from the many, one. Not just from many states one nation, but from many states of mind one body politic.

We used to have a knack for it. But lately, our differences threaten to overcome us. Lately, we have too much e pluribus and not enough unum. So that is what I wish for our country on its 241st birthday: more unum.

The polling place in morning light, shadowy figures with pamphlets and lost causes. The parking lot is almost empty.

I’ve made the pilgrimage to this place in all times and weathers, alone and with children in tow. Several times I’ve stood in line. Usually not. One off-year I voted in a trailer.

Yesterday I went with someone new to this country, someone who jokes that where he’s from, the politicians pay the voters — rather than the other way around.

He helps me see us as the beacon that we are — helps me hope that we remain that way as long as we can.