Thanksgiving dinner and why my father spitted gas into the kitchen sink.

Since the Thanksgiving holiday weekend is almost over, I have been ruminating over my personal favorite Thanksgiving, It was back in Hackensack in the old house. My father had invited some of his family over for dinner. There was Uncle Joe and my cousin Philip, Uncle Bill, Aunt Kay, the daughters, and Aunt Helen and Uncle Charley.  

My big bother was driving down from Boston but had yet to arrive. At about twelve thirty he called the house. He called to say that he was parked a block away but that he had run out of gas. Between him and the house was a steep hill and could somebody come down with some gasoline so he could get up the hill. 

Our house was open bar and by then the brothers had all had a beer or two or an old fashioned. My father yelled to them that Jim needed us to come down with a filled gas can. My father had an empty gas can in the garage. The mission became to siphon gas out of one of the cars. The art of siphoning seemed to be a skill they all possessed, a skill learned during their youths in the Bronx. 

First they tried Uncle Bill's car. His car didn't have any gas. Uncle Joe had gas and my father siphoned gas but ended up with mouth full of Shell Regular in his mouth. He ran into the house and spitted it into the kitchen sink, in full view of Mother. Mother was not pleased.

With the gas can full, the six men ran down the hill together and located Jim's car.  I wonder if any of the neighbors questioned why six men were galloping down Kaplan Avenue. At the car there was a brief debate on whether to pour the gas down the carburetor or not. The decision obtained was that we would just pour the gas into the usual receptacle.  

Mission accomplished. The older men got to ride back to the house with Jim with the now gassed up car while the boys walked back. For a moment the men were teenagers doing a weekly chore, rescuing one of the family cars. The rest of the day went well but the turkey was a little overcooked. 

 

 Here is one of my favorite posts on Thanksgiving and the family. 

Me and Joe

I am currently reading one of my two favorite travel writers, Bill Bryson (the other being Paul Theroux) on his second book about Britain, the Road to Little Dribbling. The theme seems to be that Britain is not as good a place to visit as it used to be. In one tangent he criticized the constant use he hears of the phrase, "Me and other person". He believes that we should say "Other person and I" when referring to a compound subject performing an action. 

Once, in my early days as a reference librarian, I used the phrase, "Me and Joe" in answer to the question by the department head concerning who had closed up the building the night before. I was scolded for not saying 'Joe and I closed the building", I blamed the indiscretion on my recent return from the great American West, "I guess I picked up some bad habits from living in Denver."

Today I am defending the term "Me and other person". It rolls off the tongue. Saying "Joe and I closed the building" sounds awkward to me. Like suddenly stopping before making a right turn on red when you notice a police car in the neighborhood. 'Me and Joe paid for the pizza" sounds perfectly fine to me. Grammar rules should be flexible and reflect actual use. Hopefully, me and you can agree on that one. 

Being a poll worker

 In early 2021 there was a slew of advertising encouraging people to become poll workers in New Jersey. It seems like a lot of the recent poll workers had left the calling or died. I remember going to the polls in 2019 and being bewildered by the array of post 80-year-old election workers. Hence, it was not surprisingly that covid, the fear of covid, or the rumors that computers were coming to the voting booths had diminished the ranks of the poll workers,

Having decided not to work for the Census bureau after all, I felt that at least here was something I could do with my spare time. Plus, the pay was not bad for a one-off day twice a year. I became a poll worker, starting with the primary election of 2021 and have been doing it ever since. 

As rumored, the polling sites have become computerized. Gone are the huge books that voters and the poll workers had to peruse to find a name. Now the modified I Pad could find the name and party. Party affiliation being necessary for primary voting. 

The most fascinating part of being a poll worker is the social dynamic. Here is a relative cross section of people who, for the most part, are complete strangers. This group is expected to engineer the complicated process of getting the machines working, herding the voters through the process and ending the day with the necessary colored tags and engineered the minutiae of the process. Surprisingly, for the most part, the group works as a team with only occasional testiness.

At the ungodly hour of 5 am the assembled group starts the day. There's not even a coffee urn. The leaders and the followers soon emerge. Some people gravitate to the check in computers. Some people gravitate to the machines on the floor. Electricity can be a problem.  Surprisingly, every plug in a firehouse is not functional. Occasionally someone from the county shows up to supervise things and people discreetly put their cell phones in their pockets.

Extacted from the voting machine at the end of the day is a small disc, the size of a disc in an old digital camera. This tiny hard drive contains the voting data.  

One of the highlights of my experience occurred on a very slow primary election. I got to learn about how a woman lost her husband, first to illness and then to another woman. Then the group opened up about everybody's children. I am so glad I travel. It gives me something to talk about on election day. 

Editor's note: There is training given before each election day and now they have online training.