LETTERS From CAMP Rehoboth |
VIEWPoint |
by Brent Mundt |
A Tally that Would Make a Dimpled Chad Cry
As we enter the season where Wolf, Anderson and Katie will soon vault us into a polling frenzy and play paint ball with the red and blue states, let's zero in on that small reliably blue wonder, Delaware. Ahhhh, Delaware. Lookdown there. Further south. Lower. Slower. It's election day in Rehoboth Beach. This past August 12 it looked something like this: sweeping down out of crystal clear blue skies, it's apparentWOW, that streetscape is FABULOUS. And look, it's election day! Hey over therenext to the water tower. In the parking lot next to the convention center. Down there! On a glorious day with temps more befitting early fall than mid-August, three candidates have set up camp, knowing full well that all would leave tan, but only two would leave smiling. Hand shaking, check. Back slapping, done. Baby kissing. You bet. Exit polling goes like this: "Are you going to the Art League or to North Shore?" "Will you be at SOB's or have them deliver at Poodle?" In Rehoboth, the candidates wear flip flopsbut no one accuses them of doing so on the issues. Stand here long enough and you'll see our community has an Andy, a Barney, a Floyd the barber, and several Aunt Beasand you really do get the sense that Otis would put himself in jail after a few too many pops at Partners. (Whoops. We just outed Otis. Tell Ron Howard to hold.) In the truest sense of creating a more positive Rehoboth, you have to view an election where an open lesbian is judged for her stance on a zoning setback, not the sex of her partner, as progress. Our community is safe, warm, open. For some, it's Gayberry. For all, it's a real hometown. And it is full of concerned citizens who vote. The prevailing wisdom going into election day was that the incumbent ruled. The race, otherwise, was too close to call. So everyone files in at 6:00 p.m. and waits with baited breath. When the count was read, Kathy McGuiness, the incumbent skated home. Then came the stunning news: Paul Kuhns 542. Patricia Coluzzi 539. At least Al Gore could cling to a hanging chad for a few weeks. This was cut, dry, quick. And a squeaker for one, heartbreaking for the other. More than any other year in memory, the election hung in the balance by only three votes. It could have been three bears at North Shore. Make that three registered bears. The difference looked like the Supremes, 3 pigs, 3 Amigos, 3 Dog Night, The Kingston Trio, 3 Wise Women. The Dixie Chicks!!!!!! Yes Yes Yes The Dixie Chicks! Three measly registered somethings. Then a resident mathmetician mutters under his breath that it actually required only two flipped votes. Two, not three. Two fence sitters. Two. Now you know deep in your heart someone stood there behind the curtain and said, "Hmmm I can't remember which one, so I'll go with a boy and a girl." But it's 6:05 and the fat lady is singing. So, if you're reading this and you didn't vote, write this down and tape it to the fridge: "NEVER MENTION TO ANYONE THAT I FORGOT TO VOTEAT LEAST NOT FOR 5 YEARS, MAKE THAT 10." Politics. Long before election day the bonds were formed. Formed delivering yard signs; formed handing out bumper stickers; formed stuffing envelopes. Sometimes there are cookies. Often there's tea. Always good chatter. But politics, it seems, is also a hundred paper cuts. It's the razor thin win, with the realization that it could just have easily been a loss. It's the occasional gut punch that could, for those three votes, have been a win. Politics brings together people who care very much for the town where they livebut together they have to face that "one day it's kicks, then its kicks in the shin." But the planet spins. And the world goes round and round. And no sooner was Pat Coluzzi kicked in the shins than people crowded her home to thank her for a race she could be proud of. For being Pat. They came together, gay and straight, young and old to hug herand one anotherand to begin the next chapter. And elsewhere in the City, gay and straight, young and old, gathered to celebrate with Paul, and to help plan for the future of the City. They too, marveled togetherthree votes. THREE VOTES! So don't ever tell us that in Rehoboth, your vote doesn't count. All politics is local, especially ours. Brent Adams Mundt makes a living in Washington and a life in Rehoboth. |
LETTERS From CAMP Rehoboth, Vol. 16, No. 13 September 15, 2006 |