Flashes of Panic

The sign in front of Annie’s this noon noted that tomorrow is the last day to register to vote in the November election, in Commonwealth of MA. (Why I end up living in commonwealths, I’ll never understand; I prefer the sound of “Great State of…” much more.)

After hearing the reports of voter turnout in Afghanistan, and seeing the degree to which everyone I know seems to be exercised about the coming presidential race, I’m going to be sorely disappointed if we, as a nation, don’t top the 51% turnout we had in 2000. (Yes, you only needed to persuade less than a quarter of registered voters to turn out and vote for you in order to become president.)

I’m glad, actually, that I’m in a state so solidly partisan that we’re not the focus of a barrage of campaigning. The roadsides of Maine are thoroughly sprinkled with signs for local and national races in a way we’re not seeing here. Since I don’t watch television, I can’t be sure if they’re getting more drivel on the idiot box than we are. But that’s four electoral votes. Four. There has to be a better way.

Behind all the political litter, the foliage is spectacular in a literal way. From Cadillac Moutain, you could look west to Sargent Mountain and see red and orange trees creeping up the sheltered folds of the otherwise rocky dome. Here in the Connecticut Valley, not two hundred yards from Annie’s there was a car pulled over while the driver snapped a shot of a blazing-bright field with Mt. Toby beginning to change in the background. I remind myself to look up from the signs at the ephemeral posters autumn is putting up, as the broad-leaved trees cash in their summer investments and hope they saved enough for the winter. Is it too early to anticipate sugaring season?

Now Playing: “Not Fazed” from Going Blank Again by Ride