Dear Editor,
Election day arrived. I was the poll station supervisor -— nervous and anxious, to say the least. I had not done this before.
Was everything in place? People? Stations? Supplies? Signs?
With palms sweating, at exactly 7 a.m. I opened the doors of the gymnasium at Homma elementary. A small crowd had already gathered, eager to do their duty. It was show time.
They came, some with earnest faces, some in a jovial mood chatting with neighbour’s, baby strollers, business attire, joggers, trades people, young, old, in they came.
The democratic machine was working. Identification was taken, names cross-checked on “the list”, ballots were handed out. Behind the cardboard veil of secrecy, they put their X on our future, and with resolute, dropped them in the ballot box.
There were glitches, of course.
“I’m not on ‘the list,’ “I just moved here,” “I live overseas,” “I married, and have a new name.” One by one, we resolved the issues, trying our best so that one and all eligible voters could cast their precious ballot. Busy, yes, I was busy.
Out of the corner of my eye from across the gym, I spotted him, a tall man, dressed for the occasion. I presumed he was in his nineties. He entered, paused and looked around. With two canes and a determined, yet kind, face, he slowly made his way to his designated station.
I watched each painstaking step. It was a slow march. He needed a rest when he got there and a chair was brought for him to sit during the identity process. Slowly he rose, ballot between fingers that were also clutching one of his canes. I came over to see if I could be of assistance as he made his way behind the cardboard veil.
Moments later he emerged, wondering where to drop his ballot. I picked up the box and brought it to him, held it out for him, and with a soft smile, he dropped it into the slot.
“Thank you”, he said, with eyes as kind as I seldom see.
Slowly, he walked back across the gym to the exit and out the door. I was speechless as I watched this man. I walked out after him. As he stood beside his electric mobility cart about to get on, I said, “Sir, I have enormous respect for you.”
He straightened his shoulders, raised his head and for a brief moment our eyes locked in silence.
“Thank you,” he said, with a gentle yet clear voice.
“I fought in a world war for this,” he added.
“Thank you,” I said.
“You’re welcome,” he replied, with a smile and a nod, and he left.
I went back to the polling station. The busyness of the day hadn’t stopped. Problems kept coming, good problems, problems we can fix so we can vote. I couldn’t get him out of mind. I had briefly encountered true courage, integrity, loyalty, gentleness and kindness in a man who showed me how to live my life.
Gerrit L. de Vries
Richmond
