I heard —what show, about what state, I dunno— on the teebee the other day claim that the average age of poll workers in this country is 72. Their ranks have been augmented by one in California:

On Super Tuesday, I will join thousands of other volunteers across the state and serve as an election clerk for the primary. I’ve been assigned to work at the Women’s Club of Hollywood, which is not my polling place but is close enough to home that I can ride my bike there.

Or maybe not. My bike — it has a basket. My basket — it has two bumper stickers. They read: “Peace Out Bush” and “Defend America: Fire the Republicans.” Another rule comes to mind: No electioneering within 100 feet of the polls. I will lock my bike to something that is 101 feet away.

The really sweet part is down towards the end, talking about going to Nevada in ’04 to work for Kerry. It’s late and she’s tired:

The hotel clerk who checked me in didn’t even look up as she clicked and clacked away on her keyboard. But it turns out she saw me after all. She said, very quietly, “You’ve booked a room in the really cheap seats, and I have to tell you, Ms. Slezak, I want healthcare. I want my Social Security to stay secure. I want the right to form a union. And I see by those campaign buttons you’re wearing that you’re here to help us in Nevada get those things, so let’s just give you a free triple upgrade to the Island Tower Suite.” At that, she looked up and asked, “Would that suit you, Ms. Slezak?” She was offering me a hand — one person to another — and it suited me on many levels.

When I think of politics and elections, I think of all of us who are trying to make our way in the world. We the people. We the people who vote, volunteer, fight for our rights, kindle dreams and offer triple upgrades when we’re able. We the people who do all this not because we hope that one candidate or another does or does not get the vote. We the people who do it because it’s yet another way to show we care. For each other. What is a country if not its citizens?

I killed my bookmark to the LA Times when they hired the Doughy Pantload to spew incoherent hatred in exchange for money, at a time when they were laying off real editors and reporters. I still won’t bookmark ’em again or read them on a daily basis until they sack the incompetent little nepotistic twerp, but they get one link just for this lovely story.

So if you’re in one of the Tsumani Tuesday (evidently going to be Tornado Tuesday in Tennessee…did I mention it’s after 10 p.m. here and I just had my hourly cig out on the back porch in light sweatpants and a tshirt??)…ahem, if you vote tomorrow, in person, thank the poll workers wouldja? Even if you have to raise your voice a little and promise to stay off their yards.