As far as I'm concerned, there were two miracles on Election Day '08:
Obama won. And I found my phantom polling station.
I'm perfectly adept at getting lost on my own. But the Obama campaign made it a little easier on Tuesday by sending me and Brandon, my fellow volunteer, to observe a polling station that didn't, well, exist.
According to the Obama campaign, you can easily find St. Louis Benscance Church, or New Haven's polling station 13, on 15535 Lincoln Highway, between Dewy and Dawkins Roads.
But after spending an hour driving back and forth on Lincoln Highway before dawn last Tuesday, I can guarantee that all you'll ever find between Dewy and Dawkins Roads are barns, fields, train tracks, cows, and a few more fields and barns.
Lucky for us, we eventually found a local who helped us find the real church, which was five miles away on another country road.
(The things you do for the man you love.)
As we walked into the church, a sea of white heads in the voting line turned and looked at us quizzically. Apparently I had forgotten to wear my cowboy boots. And Brandon, a 22-year-old black college student from Chicago, had forgotten his carharts.
We took our places at a table next to Roy and Paul, two septuagenarian Republican volunteers who'd been monitoring elections for 25 years. Our mission was the same as theirs: to count voters in case of a later discrepancy. The Obama campaign had given us a list of names to check off for this purpose. We were supposed to find the poll workers checking in voters (in this case two gray-haired women) and look over their shoulders as they signed people in. Fortunately, though, Roy and Paul had brought a sign-in sheet that they offered to share, so we didn’t have to pester the elderly ladies.
The first few hours passed pleasantly. Brandon and I chitchatted with Roy and Paul and listened to voters discuss issues of local importance.
We learned, for example, that rains have different effects on soybeans and corn, and that the Indianapolis gun show the week before was not to be missed. We learned about broken combines and pick up trucks, and that two farmers got killed last year by their tractors. We learned that polling station 13 also functions as a town hall, gymnasium and day care center, and that the church was having a funeral dinner later that night for a woman called Mary Lou, who apparently knew or was related to everyone in town.
Roy, too, seemed to know everyone in town.
"Hey, Phil,” Roy said to one of his many friends in the voting line. “You still out there at the Kraft factory?"
"Yup. Still out there at the factory. Still huntin' too. "
"How many of them deer you shoot this season?"
"Six or seven. I just sit on my porch these days with my shotgun and they come to me and 'pop,’ they're gone. And I hit two with my truck already."
Roy let out a deep chuckle.
"You know what they say about us folks in New Haven," he said. "Everyone's a deer hunter here."
By 2 pm or so, Brandon and I thought we'd not only learned a lot, but had also made some friends. Then the mood at our table turned tense.
Roy and Paul were running out of paper for their sign-in sheets. They had been giving us carbon copies, but were all out now. They would have to flip sheets over to collect signatures.
Brandon and I were faced with a crucial decision: We could either park ourselves behind the old women, start our own sign in sheet, or keep working off of Roy and Paul's sheets, but give them back when we were done.
I floated the third option by Paul, who turned to me and scowled:
"Who do you think you are?" he said. " Why didn't you come here prepared? You just can't get here late and expect us to do everything for you. We don’t work for you."
Taken aback, I told Paul not to worry—we would rely on the poll workers instead.
As we gathered up our papers to relocate, a middle-aged voter in line turned to me and yelled, "Miss! State your reason for being here in this polling station! What exactly is your business here?"
All 40 voters in line turned my way as I explained that each party is allowed to have two observers at each polling station, and that I was one of those volunteers. Flustered, Brandon and I made our way over to the poll workers, who were less than thrilled to let us peer over their shoulders.
After only ten minutes on the new job, someone tapped me on the back. I turned to see the polling station manager, a fiery brunette who happened to be Roy's daughter.
"Step aside, mam," she said, pinching my sweater. "We’ve been getting some complaints about what you’re doing. I'm not sure that you're allowed to be here. I'm calling the Board of Elections."
Fifteen voters checked in as she peppered the Election Board with questions about what volunteers were and were not allowed to do. Then she shut her cell phone, apologized, and admitted that everything we were doing was completely legal.
I don't think she was trying to cause a problem; I think she was just confused. I doubt a Democratic volunteer had stepped into that precinct for 20 years.
Nevertheless, the setback was irritating, and made me determined to count every last voter.
The polls closed at 6. But with no voters in line at 5:55, I kept my feet firmly planted behind the two old women.
Meanwhile Roy, Paul and Roy's daughter were hurriedly moving chairs and tables, preparing for the evening's funeral dinner.
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