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Election Day dawned with just a hint of rain. Looking out at the lake to the north, I could see a thin dark band of clouds. 


In late October we had begun to wonder where we were to vote. We had moved out to Big Birch Lake, affectionately called BBL by the other retirees there. The lake nearly bordered Grey Eagle but we maintained a Melrose address. 


Driving into Melrose, after taking the five mile corner to the south, we would pass a little building with a big sign that said MELROSE TOWNSHIP HALL. I often imagined that it must have a pot-bellied stove and wooden benches. Would we vote in that tiny clapboard place that looked like a play house?


Husband Russ decided to find out by checking in town at the Melrose City Offices, a contemporary building with big windows overlooking the Sauk River. Our question was: did owning a home in Melrose, now rented, mean that we voted in town, or out at the lake?


Russ does not share my political affiliation. He joked that after finding out where we voted, he would send me to the wrong location. We laughed together. We recognize that we cancel out each other's votes. But we also know that we have to allow individual preferences.


A Melrose election official was finally found and cleared up the matter. Our voting location was St. Rosa, a hamlet surrounded by rolling farm fields and small ponds. The store there sold fishing licenses, bait, videos, groceries and gas. Across the street from the store is the All-Star, a bar and eating establishment where, on Wednesday nights, folks from the lake come to dine on fried chicken and mashed potatoes.


Across Hwy. 17 is St. Rosa of  Lima Catholic Church. It stands tall, with a steeple that is the highest point around. It is a place of soul for many of the south shore lake dwellers and the farmers north of Melrose and Freeport. Located in the church basement was the polling place for all whose address was Birch Valley Road.


While driving from the lake to the St. Rosa Church, a distance of less than three miles, I gazed at the corn stubble left in the harvested fields. The sun was shining but the sky had the look of the approaching change of season. We argued a bit, Russ and I, about the past Franken/Coleman election and how conservatives were so sure that voter fraud had occurred, especially because of  "those  felons who voted."

My view was that all the fuss and noise was just that. Besides, I said, Minnesotans were known nationally as holding fair and no-nonsense elections. Russ and I decided to just let it be.

I thought to myself that these fields we were passing, and the lake we had just left, gave me a sense of permanence. They would be here tomorrow, no matter who got elected today. The open skies brought a perspective of oneness beneath it, even though there would be a few Democrats and many more Republicans voting differently in this place.

I thought about what Election Day would be like in the city. Long lines, traffic congestion, noise, possible trouble from poll watchers, harried and anxious people in a hurry. Here, we just drive up to the church, park right there on the road, walk down into the basement and find the election judges, four or five of them, just 
waiting for us.

Several long tables had been set up and there was one booth with side panels that snapped on to provide privicy. No one else was voting. We had our picture IDs at the ready, along with a gas bill that had our address on it. As it turned out, we didn't need either. The judges behind the table knew us, and we knew them. Just fill out the registration form, they said.

I took the booth, Russ took a table, and in no time we were finished. After a few jokes with the election judges about the scanning machine shredding our ballots, out we went.

I was happy to see that another car had driven up. Crazy, I thought. Imagine what was happening at the polls in the cities -- and here I was, grateful to see one other voter! 

As we drove home over the familiar hills, I felt gratitude. Gratitude that two people with very different viewpoints on the direction of our country could, so peaceably and with so much enjoyment, find voting to be a shared responsibility, and a shared privilege.

Mary Jane Sieben is a retired mental health counselor and a source in MPR's 

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Mary Jane Sieben

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Her first vote in a rural setting reminded her that, no matter who wins an election, the important things will go on.

Out in the country, voting is a pleasure and a privilege

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