Updated: Nov 9
Do you know the real reason election workers give out those “I Voted” stickers? It’s not just to light up social media feed with selfies from everyone wanting to sport a sticker to show that they voted. In Georgia, only after a voter has turned in their paper ballot, and their card, and their stylus all together do they earn that ubiquitous sticker. It’s less about giving out the stickers than ensuring that the cards get returned.
I learned that from my husband, a civics and social studies geek. Much of our calendar this past month has evolved around his twelve-hour shifts as an early election poll worker. I’ve heard more than I care to about precinct set-up and take-down and how all the separate stations work. The man loves the democratic process. And what can I say? He also enjoys sharing stories.
Like this one. Early one morning, a woman came in to vote and found a marked paper ballot left on the printer tray in her station. “How could this happen?” she asked, dismayed when she learned the ballot had to be voided. Rice suggested it must have occurred when the precinct got extra busy. People forget to turn in their stylus or card, and sometimes even their ballet. Staff can usually stay on top of that…except during heavy traffic times…or if they’re helping disabled or elderly voters.
Speaking of that demographic…did you know that voters seventy-five or older can ask to be moved to the front of the line? Same for disabled voters. Some appreciate the special consideration, like the 103-year-old gentleman who came in with his son, who helped him to vote. Others are fine without it, like the young man with cerebral palsy who declined Rice's assistance during or after voting. “No, thanks,” he said. “I’m just waiting for my Uber.” Apparently, he’d ordered a ride to get in to vote, and that was his plan for getting home.
To Rice, these stories reflect how seriously people took this election. To me, they reflect how much he appreciates the process but also how much he cares about people and making election time fair and comfortable for all. For instance, he told me he excused himself from checking in voters when a woman showed up in his line wearing a burka or niqab. “Why?” I asked him. “Because,” he said, “she had to remove her veil so we could match her ID to her face, and I believed she’d prefer to do that in the presence of other women and not me.”
Oh, yeah, that's Rice. He enjoyed doing his civic duty, even attending required trainings prior to showing up at the polls. Early voter turnout was great. For the most part, people were patient and pleasant. Only one person threatened to lodge a complaint of voter suppression. According to Rice, “It was chilly. He grew angry when I asked folks in line outside the building to move back into the shade to make room for patrons wanting to access the library.”
Personally, I might have snapped at that man had I signed up to work the polls myself. Definitely, I would have gone crazy, having to repeat the same directions repeatedly.
Of course, it’s over now. As the winners celebrate, the losers lick their wounds. Personally, I feel a bittersweet twinge of pride, watching American democracy in action once more. One side lost an election and vows to honor the succession of power. I needed to see that again. I needed to witness respect for this system that allows us to fight for the fundamental rights and freedoms we hold dear.
As we march on, I'd like to say a heartfelt thank you to all who voted. To those who worked to make the process go smoothly, double thanks... and two more fond memories from this year’s Georgia election.
Rice’s favorite:
A pregnant woman came in to vote. She was in active labor, but she insisted, “I have to vote!” We moved her through the line as fast as we could. She was having killer contractions, all hunched over and groaning with pain. But she voted. And I trust she made it to where she planned to deliver. I mean, I never heard any off-the-wall delivery stories on the news that night.
My favorite:
Rice left the library after a twelve-hour shift and stopped to pick up a few things at Publix. As he was leaving for home, he backed his truck into a woman’s SUV.
Frazzled about what to do, the woman told Rice she’d like to call her husband. He agreed. When the husband showed up, he said he really couldn’t see any damage, but he collected Rice’s insurance and contact information and said he’d like to re-check the car in the light of his garage back at home.
All the while, the woman kept staring at Rice. “I swear I know you,” she said.
Suddenly, he realized, she did. Sort of.
“Well,” he said, “I’m the guy who made your evening by backing into you.” Then he gave her a sheepish grin. “But I’m also the poll worker who wouldn’t let you take a picture of your daughter today as she voted for the first time.”
“Right.” The woman remembered now, too. “Cell phones aren’t allowed in the booth.”
When the Riceman got home and filled me in, all I could think of was, oh yay.
His phone pinged almost immediately, and he mouthed the words, it’s them. Then he silently read his message.
“What?” I said once he stopped reading, hoping the news wouldn’t be bad.
“The wife said not to worry. Everything looks A-okay. Then she thanked me for my service and told me to enjoy a nice evening with my wife.”
And you know what? He did.
Do you know the real reason election workers give out those “I Voted” stickers? It’s not just to light up social media feed with selfies from everyone wanting to sport a sticker to show that they voted. In Georgia, only after a voter has turned in their paper ballot, and their card, and their stylus all together do they earn that ubiquitous sticker. It’s less about giving out the stickers than ensuring that the cards get returned.
I learned that from my husband, a civics and social studies geek. Much of our calendar this past month has evolved around his twelve-hour shifts as an early election poll worker. I’ve heard more than I care to about precinct set-up and take-down and how all the separate stations work. The man loves the democratic process. And what can I say? He also enjoys sharing stories.
Like this one. Early one morning, a woman came in to vote and found a marked paper ballot left on the printer tray in her station. “How could this happen?” she asked, dismayed when she learned the ballot had to be voided. Rice suggested it must have occurred when the precinct got extra busy. People forget to turn in their stylus or card, and sometimes even their ballet. Staff can usually stay on top of that…except during heavy traffic times…or if they’re helping disabled or elderly voters.
Speaking of that demographic…did you know that voters seventy-five or older can ask to be moved to the front of the line? Same for disabled voters. Some appreciate the special consideration, like the 103-year-old gentleman who came in with his son, who helped him to vote. Others are fine without it, like the young man with cerebral palsy who declined Rice's assistance during or after voting. “No, thanks,” he said. “I’m just waiting for my Uber.” Apparently, he’d ordered a ride to get in to vote, and that was his plan for getting home.
To Rice, these stories reflect how seriously people took this election. To me, they reflect how much he appreciates the process but also how much he cares about people and making election time fair and comfortable for all. For instance, he told me he excused himself from checking in voters when a woman showed up in his line wearing a burka or niqab. “Why?” I asked him. “Because,” he said, “she had to remove her veil so we could match her ID to her face, and I believed she’d prefer to do that in the presence of other women and not me.”
Oh, yeah, that's Rice. He enjoyed doing his civic duty, even attending required trainings prior to showing up at the polls. Early voter turnout was great. For the most part, people were patient and pleasant. Only one person threatened to lodge a complaint of voter suppression. According to Rice, “It was chilly. He grew angry when I asked folks in line outside the building to move back into the shade to make room for patrons wanting to access the library.”
Personally, I might have snapped at that man had I signed up to work the polls myself. Definitely, I would have gone crazy, having to repeat the same directions repeatedly.
Of course, it’s over now. As the winners celebrate, the losers lick their wounds. Personally, I feel a bittersweet twinge of pride, watching American democracy in action once more. One side lost an election and vows to honor the succession of power. I needed to see that again. I needed to witness respect for this system that allows us to fight for the fundamental rights and freedoms we hold dear.
As we march on, I'd like to say a heartfelt thank you to all who voted. To those who worked to make the process go smoothly, double thanks... and two more fond memories from this year’s Georgia election.
Rice’s favorite:
A pregnant woman came in to vote. She was in active labor, but she insisted, “I have to vote!” We moved her through the line as fast as we could. She was having killer contractions, all hunched over and groaning with pain. But she voted. And I trust she made it to where she planned to deliver. I mean, I never heard any off-the-wall delivery stories on the news that night.
My favorite:
Rice left the library after a twelve-hour shift and stopped to pick up a few things at Publix. As he was leaving for home, he backed his truck into a woman’s SUV.
Frazzled about what to do, the woman told Rice she’d like to call her husband. He agreed. When the husband showed up, he said he really couldn’t see any damage, but he collected Rice’s insurance and contact information and said he’d like to re-check the car in the light of his garage back at home.
All the while, the woman kept staring at Rice. “I swear I know you,” she said.
Suddenly, he realized, she did. Sort of.
“Well,” he said, “I’m the guy who made your evening by backing into you.” Then he gave her a sheepish grin. “But I’m also the poll worker who wouldn’t let you take a picture of your daughter today as she voted for the first time.”
“Right.” The woman remembered now, too. “Cell phones aren’t allowed in the booth.”
When the Riceman got home and filled me in, all I could think of was, oh yay.
His phone pinged almost immediately, and he mouthed the words, it’s them. Then he silently read his message.
“What?” I said once he stopped reading, hoping the news wouldn’t be bad.
“The wife said not to worry. Everything looks A-okay. Then she thanked me for my service and told me to enjoy a nice evening with my wife.”
And you know what? He did.
(Note: This piece originally ran in Women Writers ~ Women’s Books Online Magazine in early September 2024. I thought it would be fun to share in my own space during this most ghostly month of all. Enjoy!)
The ghosts came to town in 2020. October, to be exact. That’s when I contemplated taking a stab at my first National Novel Writers Month (NANOWRIMO), the challenge to draft a 50,000-word book in the month of November. The experience resulted in the first whispers of SECRETS OF THE BLUE MOON. My debut novel follows Marnie Putnam, a grieving woman who battles her own personal ghosts as she chronicles the haunted history of a quaint Georgia town.
Did I set out to write a ghost story? No. The tale began as balm for my soul at a time when I’d grown tired of people spouting their thoughts on vaccines and Presidential politics. Many were shouting; few listened. Travel was off the table, as was visiting favorite restaurants and funky shops in the lake town near where I live. I mourned my old life. Yet I considered myself lucky. I didn’t have to get up each morning, go out into the world, and face the unknown.
When I sat down to write, I created a town like the one I was missing. I named it Lake Gardner. Then Marnie appeared to me. She said her marriage was rocky after losing two pregnancies and a job. To heal, she briefly fled to Lake Gardner for space. There she was haunted by past regrets and an unknown future. Something more sinister too. Something not of this world.
Enter the ghosts, who came in myriad forms, appearing as flames, orbs, and even a crow. They represented fear and longing, sorrow and guilt. And maybe—maybe?—even hope.
At first, I thought those ghosts came from nowhere and just for Marnie. Later, I realized that they also came, in part, for me. They came to buffer me from my obsessions of too many lives lost. They came to distract me from thoughts of my own death. They came with a kick-butt warning: “Don’t you lose hope, old lady! Your grandkids still have plenty to teach you.”
Each of us needs to find a way to process our fears during uncertain times. My way was to write.
For more than a year, I honed Marnie’s story, struggling through workshops and major revisions, beta reads and edits. When a small press offered a contract, I was elated. But it came with two caveats: Take the pandemic out and remove any references to the Presidential election. “No one,” the editor said, “wants to re-visit the events of 2020.”
I pondered that because those very events drive Marnie’s story. She loses her job due to COVID. She runs to Lake Gardner, feeling isolated from a husband who can’t understand how deeply she mourns yet another loss. In Lake Gardner, she experiences even more isolation and loneliness.
And then there’s the blue moon. In 2020, it rose on Halloween night, an anomaly that happens only once every nineteen years.
Marnie’s search for peace is interrupted on Halloween night 2020 when a tragedy occurs in Lake Gardner. It mirrors another horror that happened there in 2012, under another blue moon. It stirs up spirits, old and new, who refuse to leave Marnie alone until she helps them find the answers they desperately seek. She believes helping them will help her too. If she can survive.
When the ghosts came to town in October 2020, it’s true, they came for Marnie. The pandemic and pesky politics, coupled with ghosts, all factored into her journey. They affected her judgment and faith, as well as her sense of purpose. They influenced how she experienced life and how she made a plan to move forward.
Yet those ghosts came for me, too. They came to help me process my own fears in those difficult times. Given all that, how could I bury all the 2020 references that clung to my pages?
Turns out I couldn't.
If a quaint town in Georgia could refuse to bury its ghosts, I decided I could too. And I did.
**
Secrets of the Blue Moon serves up speculative book club fiction that celebrates family and friendship and small-town Southern living. It’s sprinkled with gentle humor and mystery and ghosts that don’t want to let the past go. At times a bit gristly, it deals with topics including grief, self-harm, and death. Yet at its core, it is an uplifting story of hope, resilience, and redemption.
If you like stories that haunt you while also filling your heart, pick up Secrets of the Blue Moon today…and read it with the lights on tonight. Go to www(dot)janheidrichrice(dot)com to order.
