Had to use the Emergency Fuel voucher
In just over twelve hours, our local polling station will unlock the door. Those who take the time to get in line will be given a single opportunity to effect the body politic of the nation, albeit in a very anonymous fashion. After what seems to have been “month and months”, but wasn’t quite that long, I have a question that remains unanswered. If the candidates truly believe that every vote counts, why did I escape from any contact with them? No door visit. No literature in my mailbox. It’s as if I have either been totally ignored, or prejudged (his father voted a certain way and so did his grandfather, so no chance of reeducation there). Should I be thankful or hurt? I’m going to ponder this and then try to vote without bias.
We had to call in the “emergency fuel” voucher this morning, after the car got down to fumes. The garage, up the way, agreed to help us out, and now we’re good to face the week ahead. That hasn’t happened, in my memory. I would have not taken kindly to a suggestion where me and my red plastic can went for a walk.
Another afternoon, lost in the archives of another family. When all else fails, I can take solace in realizing that there are virtually enough names out there to keep me searching until I can’t sit and read any more. The lifestyle of a genealogically challenged mind. I need to know who you are, and I need to tie you in to your neighbours. Don’t mind me if I seem a little preoccupied by it all.
