Finding promise in one tenacious line of citizens . . . in the ten-day countdown to our election

By Mary Kay Roth

I went looking for hope this week.

I’m guessing most everyone feels like I do right now, bone weary from the bombardment of noxious commercials, the chill of toxic politics and the heavy shroud of doomsday hovering above our heads.  

So, I roamed and meandered about the city, initially thinking of destinations like green space and walking trails. Yet somehow I was drawn to the Lancaster County Election Commission on Friday – the final day that people could register to vote.  

 

Lo and behold, the place was overpacked with nary a parking space in sight, a long line of people literally wrapped around the Election Commission building: People registering to vote, casting early ballots.

Upon arrival, I simply and directly walked up and said I was curious about why they were there – why they were willing to wait in line.  

• “I’m here because I want my voice to be heard.”
• “There’s a lot going on right now and I’m worried.  There’s just no excuse for anyone not voting this November.”
• “Voting is important every year. But this time it feels different … Somehow there’s an urgency.” 
• “This is a democracy, so my daughter and I are exercising our right to vote – our privilege – our obligation.” 
• “I would argue this is the most consequential election in my lifetime.” 

I didn’t ask anyone about their politics. I didn’t want dogma or debate. I only explained I was writing a blog and was looking to find some faith in the election season this year.  Somehow their answers started to thaw my icy-cold soul. 

Oddly – and I know this is something of a weird analogy – the sensation was much like my mindset when I approach fall chores.

Each year at this time I cut back my perennials, mulch, clean gutters, stack up precious new piles of firewood.  I put my garden to bed for a long winter’s sleep, saying goodbye to my last geraniums as they yawn and nod.

And I find satisfaction in the wisdom that I’m protecting my little world from the coming cold, wrapping everything up in a blanket of warmth.

I’m feeling much the same way about that line of voters and their tenacious belief in democracy. Unexpectedly – now ten days until the election – that frosty shroud of doomsday is feeling much more like a cozy blanket of promise and possibility.

Sure, this was only one line of voters in one county in one state. But somehow it isn’t hard for me to imagine such lines forming in counties and states across the country … with folks who sound just like the citizens of Lancaster County.

• “I’m here today because I live in a democracy. That’s what voting is all about.”
• “I only need to officially change my address this morning … But I’ve voted in every election in Nebraska for the past 50 years and I’ll vote again this year.  It’s the way we make a difference.” 
• “The United States is at a crossroads.  And we get to have a say in which direction we will go.” 
• “Yes, I procrastinated.  But I don’t care how long this line gets. Voting is not just a right – it’s an honor.” 

Now, I’m not completely naïve. Voting should be as easy and accessible as possible, yet in recent years anti-voter bills have erected unnecessary barriers for people to register to vote, vote by mail, vote in person.  Suppression efforts range from strict voter ID laws and cuts to early voting, to mass purges of voter rolls and systemic disenfranchisement. 

Trust me, I worry.  I will continue to stay vigilant and advocate.

Nonetheless I found people of all walks of life at the Election Commission on Friday, people of various ethnicities, ages and sensibilities.

Granted, there was the inevitable funny guy who claimed he thought this was the line where he could order a double whopper.

And the man who – I truly don’t know why – felt it necessary to call me by that ugly pejorative reserved exclusively for females.

But just when I was about to head home, I encountered three eager students from the University of Nebraska-Lincoln who were practically bouncing up and down in line. One of them boldly stepped forward to talk with me: “My dad is from Poland and my whole life I was raised with the belief that the right to vote in this country is special – precious – sacred. My dad was passionate about voting.  So, I am passionate about it too.  I’m here to register to vote for the very first time and I brought my two best friends along.”

Be still my heart.

This coming week I’ll replace the furnace filter and drain gasoline from my mower. I’ll trade out hoes for rakes and snow shovels.  

And I’ll tackle my very favorite fall chore, planting bulbs. Because I know this spring those bulbs will poke their heads out of the ground and bloom.

Yeah, I could always lose everything with a really hard freeze.  But I try my best to keep the faith. 

I plant. I mulch. I vote. I believe. 

I believe this spring we’ll look back upon a November election when record numbers of voters made (mostly) wise choices about their community and their country.  

I went looking for hope this week.  I found a glimmer.

***Election day is Tuesday, Nov. 5, 2024.  Vote. Encourage others to vote. Wear your “I voted” sticker proudly. Volunteer to offer rides to polling places.  And keep the faith.

October is the fallen leaf . . .

 “October is the fallen leaf, but it is also a wider horizon more clearly seen. It is the distant hills once more in sight, and the enduring constellations above them once again.”   

 - Hal Borland

***

Marilyn Moore

Wilderness Park

***

JoAnne Young

Root Beer Falls, 

Tahquamenon State Park, 

Upper Peninsula, Michigan 

***

Penny Costello

Black Hills of South Dakota,  Sacred Paha Sapa 

“These granite spires ground me and recharge my soul in a way no other place can. There's no place like home."

***

Mary Reiman

Outside my window

***

Mary Kay Roth

Holmes Lake

Life disrupted in one step

By JoAnne Young

I took a step one night in September. I thought it was the right step. But just as I tried to take another, a step forward into my normal future, I discovered a second step, hidden in the dark, that stopped time. 

 

Here I was, missing that step, landing hard on concrete. My future, over there, where normal time continued with the second half of the Husker football game and pizza and chatting with friends, was lost to me. 

 

I entered a time warp, a painful one, involving a high stakes surgeon, lots of ceiling views, an existential stroll through the narcotics cabinet, and an apprentice’s introduction to new people, new ideas. 

 

Quantum physics all around me, acting on every scale. (Hmmm, is that the hydrocodone talking?) 

 

Long story short, when I crashed hard on the concrete my femur pushed through its familiar territory and into my pelvis, breaking it into Humpty-Dumpty pieces. Thus the need for the royal surgeon to put me back together again. 

 

Now, here I sit in rehab, trying to regain some hard-fought control and some faded strength and conditioning. Not waving the white flag, mind you. Learning the one-legged human role that has been assigned to me for 10 weeks. 

 

Along the way, I have been handed lessons. May I share some with you? 

 

* When you leave your home on any given day, with only your wallet or purse or backpack, you don’t usually consider you could be separated from your belongings – your clothes, your phone charger, your favorite books or teas – unexpectedly, for days or weeks. How would you describe to someone what you need and how to find those things to bring to you while you are temporarily cut off? Especially when you are a bit shaken. 

 

Maybe many of you are more organized than I am, but when I had to tell my husband what I needed and where it was, it took many more brain cells than I had available at the time. Clothes are scattered in a couple of closets and numerous drawers on two floors. While I know all the nooks and crannies I would look in to find things quickly, it’s a much bigger chore to explain it to someone else. 

 

* I have many caring friends and loved ones and while I know that, I don’t appreciate it often enough, like every day often enough. I know I need them, but I frequently forget they need me, too. Please don’t ever let that thought slip away. 

 

* I met so many good people, both experienced and just starting out, in health care. I spent nine days at Bryan Medical Center West, waiting a couple of days for my first major surgery ever and then recovering from that surgery.

 

During those days I talked to several dozen nurses, nursing assistants, health technicians, physical and occupational therapists, and several doctors. They were both women and men. Some were travelers, some students, others working to move up to higher positions. They talked about how nursing and hospital work has changed, especially in the past four years, to become more stressful and demanding, and how patients have become more disagreeable and at times combative. I found almost every one of those health workers to be caring and helpful and their stories to be compelling. 

 

They all start out with the motivation to help people. They learn far too quickly how much more complex the motivation must be to stay in the field. We, as patients, need to show them how important they are to us and to our daily lives. 

 

* When you spend hour upon hour in a hospital room, you have a lot of time to think about your life and the lives of others. In the predicament I found myself, my mind often drifted across the ocean to places like Ukraine and Gaza. How awful would it be if we were injured and in pain and did not have competent and available paramedics, doctors, nurses, well equipped hospitals, skilled surgeons, sterile operating rooms, ambulances, emergency rooms with immediate treatment options?  We are so lucky to have such good access to care in our city, our state. I spent more than a few minutes each night thinking about the people in those war zones who are suffering, and pondering the what ifs. 

 

* Lastly ... during my stay at Bryan West I was able to get a close look at the nine-foot mosaic pillars at the entrance to the hospital created by UNL’s Eddie Dominguez to commemorate the experiences of medical personnel, hospital staff, patients and families during the Covid 19 pandemic. In those pillars he recreated the reflections, efforts and emotions of all those affected by those years of connections and disconnections, suffering and fears the pandemic brought to our community. 

 

The feelings expressed in Dominguez’ art aren’t confined to the Covid years, but can be felt now, here and universally by those seeking and giving safekeeping and care. 

 

Those words he engraved in mosaic: “Exhausted, sensitive, sympathy, resilient, confidence, abandoned, challenging, overwhelming, friendly. Happiness. Amazing. 

 

We can turn these experiences into gratitude, into pieces of our personal narratives. 

 

I wish you all good health. And please, no quantum leaps. 

Follow us on Facebook at 5 Women Mayhem. 

Unexpected Moments

By Mary Reiman

Travel brochures give trip highlights, but last week I found the best part of the journey to be the lesser known, unexpected glimpses capturing my attention, my admiration, my oh-my-heavens-I-can't-believe-I-am-here-moments. The scenery. The ocean. The passion of the people who shared their deep love for their beloved country.

The adventure began in Portland, Maine, famous for lighthouses, of course. But I had never known that on April 23, 1945, the U.S.Navy’s Eagle Class Sub-Chaser was torpedoed and sunk by a German U-Boat

only 9 miles off the coast of Maine. 49 U.S. servicemen were killed. It was a misty morning when we were looking out over the ocean, giving the area an ominous feel of the history that had taken place there. Yes, 9 miles from where we were standing. 

And then on to Canada:

Halifax, Nova Scotia. 121 victims of the Titanic buried in the Fairview Lawn Cemetery in 1912. The number on each headstone indicated when their body was recovered from the sea. Some were never identified. Others were never claimed. The community continues to support the upkeep of this final resting place.

Corner Brook, Newfoundland. Picturesque fishing villages with a rugged coastline. Look what I found. Boats with great names. Snails making their way across the coastal walkways. 

In the midst of Sept-Iles (Seven Islands) was a sculpture garden tucked along the edge of the park.

Over 100 pieces created by Jean-Pier Synnott, local industrial welder/artist who uses recycled metal to create a variety of creatures, all shapes and sizes and designs. Fascinating! 

Saquenay, Quebec, has three major industries. 

#1 aluminum. The bauxite is shipped from Brazil and other international locations, using the hydroelectric power plants in the area to create the aluminum (think Alcoa) that is then often shipped back to the U.S. 

#2 black spruce, for the pulp mills. The paper was often sent to the United States but the mills have been cut back due to less print newspaper production. We also visited Baie-Comeau, a community built in the 30s by the owner of the Chicago Tribune, specifically for the paper industry.  

#3 blueberries. The largest blueberries I’ve ever eaten! 

Quebec City, the walled city with such a rich history, famous for British-French battles in the 1700s.They were also prepared to defend themselves against the United States. 

No voyage to this area would be complete without viewing Montmorency Falls.

They are indeed as majestic as described in every tour book. Indeed, a must see. The view, the sound, the magnitude of the force of the water. 

And then the final chapter. 

Morrin Centre in the middle of Quebec City. There we were.

The setting of Louise Penny’s book, Bury Your Dead.  

As it should be. 

The end of the journey.