Reflections - A Tale of Two Elections

Pin Oak Tree

Though Spence and I began with a common mission, our Election Day tasks diverged.

Early that morning, I pulled the Subaru into the parking lot behind the Milledgeville Community Christian Church. Spence jumped out of the passenger seat, tied his mask on, and hustled over to Kathy. Glasses and the stocking knit cap snagged my mask strings. I pulled the mess off, untangled it, and layered one item at a time. When I reached Kathy and Spence at the edge of the lot, he asked her, “Do you need anything? Food? A coat? A hot drink?” 

She wore a denim jacket without a hat, but her hair is much thicker than either of ours. She chortled. “No, I'm fine. I’ve got everything I need.”

We had nudged Kathy into running a write-in campaign two years ago. I took her campaign photo and composed the campaign letter. Sitting at her kitchen table with a menagerie of rescue dogs and cats weaving around our feet, I addressed envelopes for a mailing. Spence knocked on doors, handed voters the campaign letter, and answered questions about the write-in process. We also posted her campaign sign in our front yard. She’d lost by eight votes to a crazy whippersnapper. 

He only attended a few township meetings but disrupted most of them with angry outbursts. He pulled shenanigans like convincing a plaint supervisor we needed a $104,236.97 backhoe that will take five years of tight budgeting to pay off. 

This election, Kathy circulated petitions to get on the ballot. For the sake of civility and the township budget, we needed to elect her.

Inside the church kitchen, four masked neighbors greeted Spence and me from behind a long table. Linda, from the quilt guild, shoved the sign-in book toward me. “Did you walk?”

I took the offered ballpoint and scribbled my name while Spence answered. “Janet drove. I’m off to Cleveland next.” 

Handing the pen to Spence, I told the group. “He calls this my coming out party.” They laughed knowing I hadn’t voted in person since the pandemic began.

The man, whose face I recognized when he pulled his mask onto his chin to talk, pointed at another black pen in a voting booth. “Use that. Fill the ovals completely.” 

Behind me Barb, whose house is near the bridge we turn around at on one or our walks, told the man’s wife, “They’re voters number eight and nine.”

Sliding our ballots into the scanning machine fulfilled our shared mission. At 9:00, Spence moved onto his second mission—helping Rebecca win.

Rebecca Maurer, a lawyer, wrote a lead safe housing ordinance for the CLASH’s petition campaign two years ago. The city adopted her resolution that same year. She was running in 2021 for Ward 12 council member. Her website listed implementing lead safe housing reforms second after treating residents of the east and west sides of her ward equally. Her opponent, the 16-year incumbent Anthony Brancatelli, was the only council member who had voted against Rebecca’s lead safe housing ordinance. He greeted members of the Realtor association by first name and owned rental units that had poisoned two children.

Rebecca needed to win for the sake of Cleveland’s children.

Spence hopped into his old Chevy truck. On his bright sunny drive to Mound School in the Slavic Village neighborhood of Cleveland, he daydreamed of his not-yet-built Ford Maverick. 

Driving under the same periwinkle blue sky to Joann Fabric in Meadville, I daydreamed of balmy weather for Spence’s outdoor campaigning and my walk. Joann workers, unlike poll workers, didn’t wear face masks. I bought two yards of olive green belting to make tote bag handles and hustled outside. Unfortunately, lumpy gray clouds hovered over Wells Wood when I got home. And, as the Chevy edged into Cleveland, a bank of black clouds formed to the north.

Rebecca's Postcard

Spence parked in Mound School’s back lot and lugged his gear to the tent one of Rebecca’s campaign workers had set up near the driveway of the main parking lot. Two of the tent legs stood on the sidewalk, two on the tree lawn. On the other side of the sidewalk, American flags flapped in the cold wind and marked the campaign free-zone for the polls.

Rebecca’s first volunteer sat at a table under the tent. Besides wearing a winter coat and hat, she’d wrapped herself in a blanket. Spence took over for the wrapped bundler. He stood on the sidewalk behind the flags, shouted “Vote for Rebecca'' and waved her campaign postcard every time someone pulled in.

Some voters ignored him. Some glanced but kept driving. A few stopped for the postcard. They smiled at the photo of Rebecca with Yvonka, the executive director of Northeast Ohio Black Health Coalition and a CLASH member who works closely with Spence. Occasionally Spence returned to the tent to check emails. Mostly he stood, shouted, and waved—his exercise for the day.

At Wells Wood, I exercised by walking through the woods. Tree branches littered Spence’s tractor paths. Stooping to muscle the large branches out of the way provided an additional aerobic workout. Moving one branch, I discovered a pile of bear poop nestled in brown leaves. I’d forgotten my bear bell, the jingle bell I attach around my boot lace to alert bears a human is around. No worries. Shuffling through the thick leaf carpet made plenty of noise.

In Cleveland, Susan sat under Rebecca’s tent, passed out literature for Brancatelli, and chatted to Spence about restarting her life after five years taking care of her recently deceased father. From her car, she fetched a coat for Spence—which he didn’t wear—and sunglasses for a voter with glaucoma who had trouble seeing in the sunshine. 

Gradually pushing the black clouds southward, the wind increased in intensity. It picked the tent up and blew it into Ackley Road. 

Without checking for traffic, Susan darted after it.

“Careful,” Spence shouted.

Susan couldn’t handle the tent, twice as tall as her. Spence muscled it shut and pulled it out of the road. The wind opened the tent and sailed it back. Mimicking the Keystone Cop comedies, Spence wrestled the wind to return the tent to the tree lawn. Then he fetched supports from his truck—two small barbells, two screwdrivers, and duct tape. Taping the improvised weights to the aluminum legs, he balanced the tent.

At home, I sat inside the toasty log house, balanced the checkbook, and paid bills online. Gilbert walked over the computer a couple times. I didn’t have to struggle to lift him off.

With the tent in place and waiting for voters, Spence talked. He talked with optimistic, chatty Susan. He talked with TJ, a young radical CLASH member, who came by to borrow Spence’s copy of Let Them Call Me Rebel. They discussed Saul Alinsky and organizing. Spence also talked with Darrick, a CLASH friend who stopped on his way home. He’d spent the day knocking on doors and encouraging people to vote for Rebecca. The fellas had lead poisoning and Rebecca’s chances on their minds.

I let the radio’s election news talk to me while I sewed recycled sunflower seed bags into totes then ate warmed-up pizza by the wood stove fire.

In the rain, Spence sipped hot coffee and shivered. Worse than the weather, Joe replaced Susan. “He only has half a brain,” Spence described Joe to me later. “The half he has spends all its time looking for the other half.”

Joe’s complicated. He’s an investor landlord who lives near Brancatelli. Joe showed up at CLASH meetings to oppose and tear down Rebecca’s lead safe ordinance. But, he’s obsessed with lead. He took the course to become a lead risk assessor and makes money doing lead assessments for other landlords on weekends. Joe accused Spence of ruining the world by working to make houses lead safe. “No landlord would poison a child,” Joe argued. “That just wouldn’t happen.” 

While Spence dealt with bully Joe, I encountered two bullies, the father and older brother of a high school wrestler struggling to control his weight in a short story by my writing friend Keith.                

I emailed Keith to compliment him on his development of the literary bullies.

Spence ignored his real-life bully and watched for voters.

A black woman drove slowly down the road and turned into the driveway. Spence waved the postcard with the photo of Rebecca and Yvonka. The voter stopped, rolled down her window, and reached for the card.

Joe pulled his jacket open, thrust his chest forward, and flashed a big Brancatelli badge at her. “Hi, neighbor. Come over here and say hi.”

She parked and got out of the car. “Hi, Joe. How long have you been out in this cold?”

They chatted for a while before Joe said, “Vote for my buddy Anthony.” He turned away.

She looked at Spence and nodded. Though she’d humored her crazy neighbor, Spence had won her vote for Rebecca. He convinced others, one vote at a time, in a race where every vote counted.

While he drove home in sleet and snow, I slept beneath a comforter and quilted bedspread.

The next morning Spence searched the internet. Our efforts, in different places and of different intensities, paid off. Kathy won in a landslide—one hundred thirty-two to forty. With over three thousand votes cast, Rebecca won by sixty-eight. French Creek Township and Ward 12 Cleveland will be in better hands next January.

Rebecca's T-shirt