What is it like to vote in a small town?
I can’t speak for everyone in a small town but I can speak for my own.
I grew up in Littlestown, Pa., and the name speaks for itself; it’s quite the little town and probably one that you have heard little about. According to the 2013 census, the population boasts just 4,443 residents. When asked, Littlestown residents often tell outsiders they’re from Gettysburg, which is a more recognizable neighboring city due to the historical background. Admittedly, I often say the same because it makes for a much simpler explanation.
As a college student, I attend school outside of Philadelphia in the city of Radnor, which boasts a population of 30,878 people according to the 2010 census. The difference in personalties, views, and lifestyles are sometimes quite contrasting: my experience voting in the recent presidential election sealed and casted that ballot for me.
I didn’t turn my absentee ballot application in time and because of this I was faced with a decision: to not vote, or to drive two and a half hours back home to Littlestown in order cast my ballot. I am a firm believer that if we do not appreciate and exercise our rights, they will be forgotten. With that being said, Monday night I drove home without hesitation.
Tuesday morning I woke up and drove to my county’s voting place, a church, at 7:09 a.m. on a crisp 38 degree morning. Though it was early, there were easily 70 people ahead of me, most of them being just that: around age seventy. I couldn’t help but wonder why more younger people, like those around my age, were not out voting. Eventually, I saw a few old classmates and some parents of childhood friends. I wondered if they recognized me, but it was early and I didn’t feel much like conversing anyway.
Instead, I eavesdropped and people watched.
Ahead of me in line were two older women and a man and after just a few minutes it struck me that they knew almost everyone that walked out of the polling place. They knew nearly all of their names and were associated comfortably enough to greet them.
Behind me in line was an older, burly man who repeatedly said, “I ain’t voting for no Donald Duck, I’ll tell you that,” whilst occasionally spitting chewing tobacco towards political signage alongside the parking lot.
I stood alone in line, between two drastically different groups, perplexed by what was going on around me. All I could think to myself was, “…only in a small town.”
Every so often the pastor of the church walked along the line carrying cups and his personal Mr. Coffee coffee pot, offering everyone a smile and a cup to keep warm. Likewise, he walked the line wielding doughnuts every so often.
Along the church flowerbeds were handmade signs with presidential trivia that I pondered. Did President Zachary Taylor really die from eating too many cherries at a picnic? Did President Coolidge really like to have his head rubbed with petroleum jelly during his breakfast? I hadn’t known those facts before, but that was the word trailed along the sidewalk.
A constable, assumedly guarding the polling station, patrolled the line and a man who knew him made a joke about how he was going to bring his new collector’s gun along to show it to him.
After about an hour of eavesdropping, listening to foul jokes, and hearing many greetings from the trio ahead, I made it inside the polling place. I handed my license to check-in as a first-time voter and after signing my name, I was given the go ahead to take my ballot and bubble in my choices.
I did so and walked to place my ballot in the slot. I was admittedly nervous about voting for the first time and I forgot to take the strip off the bottom of the ballot. The constable, who was now making his rounds nearby, explained what I had to do.
Only in a small town could someone know nearly everyone by name. Only in a small town would a man stand ranting to himself while having the audacity to spit at political signs while in a line to vote. Only in a small town would a pastor greet voters with coffee, his personal coffee pot, while walking a line of nearly a hundred people. Only in a small town would there be handmade trivia signs along a polling place. Only in a small town would the constable push aside a joke that could be taken harshly, especially these days, and also take the time to help direct a first-time voter’s mishap.
I can’t speak for everyone in a small town, but I can speak for my own.
Driving home two and a half hours to vote reminded me exactly what it’s like to grow up in a small, rural town ranging from the courtesy, mannerisms, and in general, the perspectives. Growing up and moving away to college hasn’t just been about academics, it’s also been a learning experience of becoming accustomed to drastically different atmospheres and learning to appreciate differences in lifestyles.
