When I approached her table, the Newbury poll worker looked up and instructed me, “Just your address.  We know your name.”

Even with a mask, I remain un-anonymous!

“Then why do you ask which ballot I want for the primaries?”

“That’s required by law.”

“You know it’s a rhetorical question, right?”

“Just take your ballot and go vote.”

My attention to Newbury town politics has been minimal, maxxed out as it is on the federal scene, especially since January 6 when the 21st Century equivalent of Fort Sumter heralded the start of Civil War Two.

Democrats call it “Jim Crow 2.0.” They love understatement. And euphemism.  Or do they really not know that today’s “bipartisanship” is the 1930s’ “appeasement”?

All is calm locally.  No Democrat vs. Republican.  No candidates vying for a say in tinkle-down economics.  No one yakking about election fraud, bamboo ballots, or Jewish space lazars from Planet Mazel Tough.

Just selectmen and school committee folk who keep our small town and fickle island humming along.

Problem is that it’s too calm.  In any community, certainly one that suffers the threat of erosion during a time of rising seas, environmental planning should be continually aired and debated.

Of 14 seats on Newbury’s ballot, only one was contested.  All others listed a single name.  All incumbents.

The lone challenger, endorsed by my Plum Island neighbors of like-environmental mind, gained my one purposeful vote.

Dutifully, I gave all unchallenged incumbents a vote of appreciation.  Like it or not, with no one else wanting to serve, why shouldn’t they turn the Pink House into Mar-a-Lago North?

Must admit disappointment that none of the 14 spots were entirely void of any name.  In past elections, there was always one to write myself in.

In my mind, I was volunteering for a job no one else wanted.  Over the years I’ve volunteered to tend an ancestral cemetery, take care of trees, and assume the office of Fish Commissioner.

No matter that I don’t know where the cemetery is, how one cares for a tree, or speak fish.

All I know about fish is how to melt butter, squeeze lemon, drop Worcestershire Sauce, sift Old Bay seasoning, shake salt, and sprinkle bread crumbs on them before throwing them in the broiler.

Just as well.  I never got the call.  Perhaps someone noticed and campaigned for Fish Commish.  Would need only a second vote.

Next time, I’ll keep my eye out.  Already got my campaign slogan: “Garvey, For the Halibut!”

Maybe I’m living in the wrong town.  In Groveland there were, according to a letter to the Daily News editor, the town’s branch of the League of Women Voters, “11 open positions with no candidates, and four current officers are not seeking re-election.”

When LWV—one of several national citizens groups condemned as “communist” by Republicans for increasing access to the polls in 2020—cancelled “candidates’ night” last month, I recalled similar stories all over the American map.

And decades.  As far back as the Sixties, apathy was as much a subject of complaint as the draft, and far more than pollution.

Apathy is America’s gangrene.  Inattention, its rigor mortis.  Cynicism, its grave. Conspiracy theories seem plausible.  Democracy fails.  Authoritarianism offers answers that are simple, fixes that are quick—served up by a cult of personality with contempt for the very idea of public service.

Make America Great Again!  Deutschland Uber Alles!

That’s why Republicans make excuses for Jan. 6 as demented as calling it just another tourist day.  They don’t want to get to the bottom of it because they are at the bottom of it.

We can joke about fish commissioners and cemetery caretakers, but town and city councils are the foundation of state and federal governance—ideally, the source of public servants who attain our highest offices.

LWV’s letter expressed hope to continue candidates’ nights “when voters are more engaged.”

Understatement there is profound.  Democracy itself cannot continue until we are more engaged.

Until then, blank ballots wave white flags in Civil War Two.

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