Running scared

This evening I walk into the twilight.  I'm taking an extra loop before returning home, which takes me through desiccated, drought-dry leaves. On Su'it Street, tiny red berries pop under my feet.  The yards are blossoming into Hallowe'en decorations, which seems fitting, because today is Election Day.

Municipal elections are notoriously ill-attended and our municipal elections, with the long confusing ballots filled with scores of names for four different categories: Mayor, City Council, Capital Region, and School District, are no exception.  Demeter tells me that the turn-out for the last municipal election in Victoria was something like seven percent. She's wrong; it was almost 45%, but that's still pitiful, considering the effect a municipal election has on the quality of life in a community.

As far as I was concerned, there was a new level of trepidation with this year's contest.  Amongst the candidates, three groups appeared to have emerged:  those stemming from the incumbents, and two groups which were hopping mad at them.  

The first of the two "hopping mad" groups ran as a slate in 2018, and were not doing so this year; possibly because running as a slate made it easier for citizens to avoid voting for them.  They seem to be running on the "law and order" ticket: talking about "public safety" and "good governance".  Admirable, but a bit vague. 

The last group is far scarier.  They call themselves "VIVA" (as in "Vancouver Island Voters Association") and they claim to be non-partisan -- except the candidates have ties with the People's Party of Canada.  Populism has come to municipal politics.  (Oh gawd.)

It seemed imperative to cast a ballot.  The Resident Fan Boy ordered mail ballots, and when they didn't show up, grabbed a bus to City Hall, where he found them being held.  He, younger daughter, and I had the luxury of filling out those ballots, chockfull of candidates, at the dining room table.  He ran them down to our polling station that afternoon, by which time the line twisted around the community centre, and was fashioned into a zigzag to save space.  He carefully asked at each checkpoint, fearful of being accused of queue-jumping, but was able to file our envelopes quickly.

Meanwhile, Demeter had failed to tell me that her voter card hadn't arrived in the mail.  She said that this had happened last time, and waved me off.  I went home and worried.  The RFB had told me the wait in line was 90 minutes.

I went over for the evening call to find her placidly noting the temperatures on the local weather report, as she does every day at 5:40.  Apparently the queue operated much in the same way as the Queue at Westminster to see the Queen's coffin.  Someone clocked her walker, and directed her through the front entrance, where she was streamlined through the process, even the registration required because of her lack of a voter's card.  Then she went grocery-shopping.  She bought cheese.

Tonight, the ballots are taking forever to count, but the local news has projected those for whom we voted, for the most part.  Not a populist in the bunch.

This time.