Constituent service is an underrated duty for members of Congress.
And South Dakota’s only member of the U.S. House of Representatives served this particular constituent well yesterday by talking me out of voting in person on primary election day.
I’m an election day voter. And that’s what I told Republican Congressman Dusty Johnson during our cell-phone chat about the primary election next Tuesday.
“I’ve never voted early (personal fact check on that to come!) and I’m not about to vote early this year,” I said. “I don’t like the whole notion of voting early. We do way too much of it.
“I like to take my time and figure out my votes,” I continued. “Things change during elections, sometimes in the last week. Plus, there was all that paperwork to vote by mail — send in this, get this back, copy of your photo ID. No thanks. So, come election day I’ll put on my mask and go vote at my regular polling place, just like I always do.”
I thought I was striking a blow for the old order of things. For tradition. For thoughtful consideration of candidates and issues, rather than rush-to-judgment thinking and perfunctory party line voting.
Johnson thought it was something else: bad judgment at best, stupidity at worst. Being a polite fellow, he didn’t say that, but it was strongly implied.
“You can’t be serious, Woster. Tell me you’re not actually going to go stand in line for two hours on Tuesday to vote,” he said. “If you want to wait and consider things, can’t you at least just go down to the courthouse and vote on Monday?”
Then suddenly, the dim bulb in the brain lights up
Actually, when he said that, a very dim light in my brain came on. The 5-watt bulb of recollection flickered, briefly, and I recalled that, contrary to what I’d just told Johnson, I actually had voted “early” once in my life. One day early. In November of 2018.
I had plans for election day. Out-of-town plans. I was meeting a couple of my growing-up pals in Reliance for a drive down to Burke, where we intended to look at a mule. A couple of mules, actually. That’s the kind of friends we are: unaffiliated, unlicensed mule inspectors, you might say.
Or just old pals looking for an excuse to ride around in familiar territory and chat. The mule gawking? That was a bonus.
It was sort of a long story, which you can read in the archives of this blog
Anyway, early that November I did what Johnson suggested that I do this year: I went to the Pennington County Courthouse and voted a day early. And my head didn’t explode. The Republic didn’t crumble.
So, Johnson had, on his side, the precedent of that single aberration in my otherwise-rock-solid voting behavior. Also, on his side was, well, COVID-19.
“You don’t want to make a poll worker sick, do you, Woster?” Johnson said, working the guilt angle.
Of course, I don’t want to make a poll worker sick, especially since most poll workers I know and like are my age — 68 — or older. We’re in that more vulnerable group, and need to take care of each other.
Not that I’m a serial COVID carrier. But who knows? I could be infected. You could be. I haven’t been tested. I haven’t had COVID-like symptoms, either. And I’ve tried to be smart, sanitize, stay home as much as possible, maintain safe distances from those outside of my home and wear masks when appropriate.
But the more people who walk through the door of the polling places, the more chance somebody brings the virus in with them.
Considering the “stupid” in standing in line to vote
Pack the place and you magnify that potential for transmission, even with safeguards in place.
And then there was that two-hours-in-line thing, which Johnson admitted was probably an exaggeration.
“It probably wouldn’t be two hours,” he said. “But you could end up standing in line for a while.”
I hadn’t thought of standing in line, an oversight that now seems kind of, well, stupid. We’ve done pretty well overall in the battle against COVID, particularly here in Pennington County. No huge surges in cases hereabouts. Relatively low numbers overall. But the infections are rising. So is the concern.
So, the idea of standing around for any length of time — presumably socially distant but still insecure — was hardly appealing.
“Yeah, I don’t want to stand around for two hours,” I said. “I don’t even want to stand in line for half an hour, mainly because of COVID but also because of impatience. I’ve never had to stand in line for more than a few minutes to exercise one of my fundamental rights as a citizen of this nation."
Which is a pretty amazing thing to say, really. And it’s one of the cool things about living here in South Dakota.
Another cool thing for an old has-been of a reporter is to get an immediate call-back from your congressman. I was sitting in line at a McDonald’s drive-through waiting to pay $2 for about a gallon of iced coffee (OK, maybe not a gallon, but quite a bit) when the phone rang, and Johnson’s name flashed on caller ID.
Not a minute earlier, I’d sent Johnson a text about the 2020 U.S. House race, where he faces former Republican state Rep. Elizabeth May, a rancher and small businesswoman from Kyle in the GOP primary.
Having the courage to challenge a congressional incumbent
I assume Johnson is going to win that race, probably by a pretty wide margin. But in a GOP primary where the conservative wing of the party in South Dakota could have a magnified impact, Johnson is wise to take nothing and no one for granted, including Elizabeth Marty May.
She is a legitimate primary challenger with credentials in ranching, small business and the Legislature. She connects with an undercurrent of unhappiness in South Dakota and a sense of disenfranchisement among a segment of South Dakota Republicans who feel like their views — often ultra conservative views — aren’t as respected by the GOP establishment as they should be.
Still, I’ll be surprised if she breaks 25 percent against Johnson. Of course, I’ve been surprised before. The potential for surprises is one of the things that separates an election from a royal succession. So, people run, often against the odds as well as the incumbent. And that’s a good and courageous thing, however the race turns out.
As I waited for my iced coffee with cream but no flavoring, I listened to my friend and public-radio colleague Lori Walsh interview May on In the Moment, Walsh’s well-crafted daily talk show.
Listening to Walsh and May got me thinking about the congressional race, which had disappeared in recent weeks from my radar screen of cognition. With some time to kill before my coffee was ready at the window, I tapped out my text to the first-term congressman.
And the response was quick and helpful, neither of which all Americans can say about the responses from their elected members of Congress, if they get a response at all. And right after the chat with Johnson, I headed home with my coffee and my new voting plan.
I went online to print out an absentee-ballot application, recalling that I’d received notice in the mail weeks ago of how to print out the applications. I threw that notice away, knowing I would vote on primary election day, as usual.
So much for “knowing.”
Doing the math and understanding a mail-in ballot won’t work
After I printed out my application and one for my wife, who shares my sentiments about absentee voting, I paused to do the math. It was the 27th of May. The election is on the 2nd of June. There’s a weekend in-between.
I called the Pennington County Auditor’s Office and asked about the chances of mailing the ballot application, getting the ballot back, filling it out and mailing it in again in time. They said it would be dicey, at best.
“Would you be averse to coming into the courthouse early and vote, by appointment?” the very helpful staffer in the auditor’s office said.
I was not averse to it at all. In fact, I loved the idea. I’ve never made an appointment to vote. (I’m sure of it, even under the dimly lit view from that 5-watt bulb of recollection). But I asked about the number of voters likely to be there with me. I learned they take them in from the front door of the courthouse, no more than two at a time, by reservation only. And that math worked for me, even in the age of COVID.
“You said no more than two, right,” I said. "Could I bring my wife?”
The woman said that was fine. Mary and I went in at 1:30 p.m. today and did something neither of us had done before: We voted by appointment, a few days early.
It was pretty cool. We didn’t have to stand in line. We didn’t seem to jeopardize our health or anyone else’s (We both wore masks, didn’t stay long and sanitized afterward). And we were close enough to the real election day to feel like we were properly prepared.
And the votes? Well, I’m a registered Republican, so I got to vote in the GOP U.S. House primary in question. Which could lead you to wonder how I voted in that.
But that’s for me to know and you — and especially Dusty Johnson — to wonder about, at least until some future blog column when, ever the blabbermouth, I'll probably spill the beans on myself.
