Norm: A friend just sat in unbelieving silence when I told him I'd just changed to registered Republican but, hey, Florida is a closed primary and it's more fun to vote the Republican primaries here.
On the day I turned 18, after sleeping in, I went into town to register to vote. I was psyched about registering, but was utterly confused when the clerk asked me if I wanted to register as a Republican or a Democrat. I told her that I didn't know and asked which was better; I ended up registered Republican. When I went home my I told my family and they teased me mercilessly for registering as a Republican; our family had been Democrats for generations, they said. They also explained a bit more about politics than I'd assimilated to this point.
So, I changed my party affiliation before voting day came. On that momentous primary day, my older sister came over to pick me up on her Honda and we sped, leaning into the curves, to the Voting House. The Voting House (now a historic landmark) was a small, bright red building -- built into a hillside on stilts. The inside had always reminded me of a stripping room -- being bare wood, heated by a pot-bellied stove. Yet, I'd always had a sense of awe when there; as a child I loved going to the Voting House -- it was an exciting place to me -- and would tag along with my parents or patrons of their Country Store whenever I could con someone into letting me do so.
I don't remember who I voted for that day. But the motorcycle
ride, the Voting House, and the Old Men who ran the vote are
etched in my mind like a Rockwell painting.
