The Farfelberfel Voting System

Hello, this is Miss Jenkins with the (insert a presidential candidate) campaign. We'd like you to participate in a short survey about presidential politics ...

We hate it when that happens at our house, and it's been happening more and more lately.

I'm the one who usually snaps first. Last time I spoke with Miss Jenkins or whatever name's she's using at a particular moment, it was about a local Democrat, Scott Alexander, who was running in a special election for a state senate seat in the Commonwealth of Kentucky. When I heard what the call was about, I interrupted Miss Jenkins:

"Miss Jenkins! I'm so glad you called! I wanted you to know that we are registered Democrats! Mad, tunnel-visioned Democrats! We would vote for a Democrat if his name was Adolph Hitler! We LOVE Democrats! We want MORE Democrats! We especially love Scott Alexander and plan to vote for him and invite him over for Sunday brunch! Do you think he likes biscuits and gravy? My partner, Robert, says that EVERYONE likes biscuits and gravy, but Miss Jenkins, I told Robert that Mr. Alexander might have special dietary needs and it would be such a dining faux pas if we triggered Mr. Alexander's diverticulosis or something. I suggested that simple ham and eggs might be appropriate, but Robert asked, 'What if Mr. Alexander is Jewish?' You can't serve ham to a senator-elect who is Jewish!' I told him that you can't serve biscuits and gravy, either, because it's made from the same pig, just a different part. Robert said that sausage and ham are made from the same parts of a pig, they're just prepared differently, and I said, either way, you can't serve it to a Jewish senator-elect. What do you think, Miss Jenkins? If Mr. Alexander gets elected, do you think he'll still be Jewish, or will he convert for the duration of his term? Miss Jenkins? Hello? Are you there, Miss Jenkins? ..."

Needless to say, it worked. Miss Jenkins or whoever she was hung up and Robert and I were delighted to discover that we had found a wonderful new way to deal with telemarketers and other nuisance callers: You talk to them until THEY hang up. (And by the way, Scott Alexander, an apparently nice young man who distributed campaign flyers that showed a photo of him looking like a slack-jawed deer caught in the headlights, lost.)

I should have realized this solution was out there --- members of my family have been using it to discourage political and religious proselytizers for years.

For example, my oldest son, Patrick, discourages door-to-door church ladies who would come to his door on Saturday mornings (when they should have been at home nursing hangovers, as is his custom) by listening with apparent stupefied politeness to their sunny pitches for Jesus and then, when they pause from their fervor to take a breath, injecting, "Hey, can you hold that thought a minute? I'm sacrificing a small wee child to my Great Lord Satan and the water's coming to a boil in the kitchen --- be right back!" He'd step away, get a cup of coffee, and usually by the time he'd return to the front door, God's Tag Team would be running down the front steps as fast as their pot luck fed legs could carry them.

My mother, a devout Mormon Democrat, would leave church tracts and Democrat literature on a bench on the front porch with the message: "To all Republicans and Jehovah's Witnesses. Take one copy each, read it and then you've repented. I'm an old lady and don't have time to explain it all to everyone."

Robert and I used to live in fear of the telephone, especially at dinnertime, which, I've discovered, telemarketers and other people with commercial messages, have decided is the best time to catch everyone at home. Now, we sit at the table with one eye on our cole slaw and another on the telephone, hoping someone will call. We're ready for 'em:

Hello, you have reached the Ferfelbarfel residence. We are not at home now. If you would like to leave a message for Flavia, press "1". If you would like to leave a message for Luther, press "2". If you would like to leave a message for Goldene, press "3" ...

On the subject of politics, my favorite family political story has to do with my maternal grandfather, Bert Harder, who, if he were alive today, would be 136 years old. Sadly, his life was cut short at the age of 94, another victim of a lifetime of tobacco use and generally bad living.

Bert was a diehard Democrat from his first vote in 1896 to the day he died in 1966. He expected his family to do the same. Grandpa was 79 years old when I was born. He lived in my parents' house until his death, when I was 15.

In 1960, when I was 9, I remember hearing my first political argument at the family dinner table. It seems my mother, Minnie Spires, casually told her father that she was not entirely sure if she would vote for Democrat John F. Kennedy that year. She hinted she might consider Richard Nixon, the Republican candidate.

Grandpa swore — something I never heard him do at the table — and explained, loudly, that he and his family had always voted for Democrats, even back in 1920, when nearly everyone else voted for Warren G. Harding. Mother shrugged and got up from the table.

"When I enter that voting booth, Dad, what I do and who I vote for is between me and my conscience and my God. And sometimes I don't even tell him," she said, taking Grandpa's dinner plate away from him before he had finished his creamed squash.

Grandpa scowled at my dad. "Don't look at me," Dad said. "She's stubborn. Runs in her family."

Grandpa shouted at Mother, "Minnie, you're just like your mother!"

Dropping a handful of silverware into the soapy dishwater, Mother said, "Thank you, Dad. she never told anyone how she voted, either. Are you sure she didn't vote for Warren G. Harding?"

Grandpa's mouth fell open. Then he started to cry. At least he brushed at his face like he was wiping a tear away.

"A fine thing," he muttered. "You raise a child, try to teach her right, then she votes for that (expletive deleted) Nixon." He got up from the table and went back to his room to pout.

"Sis, Grandpa's crying!" I said to my older sister Julia.

"He's just faking," she said. "That 'tear' was on the the same side as his glass eye."

... If you wish to leave a message for Farfelberfel's Septic Tank Service about having your septic tank cleaned, press "4". If you wish to complain about your septic tank service, press "5". If your message is about Fido Farfelberfel barking all night, press "6" ...

Fast forward 40 years, to the year 2000.

Mother was by then a frail lady of 85, her mind as sharp as a guillotine. She obsessed on politics like Bill Clinton in a room full of fat women with a tub of butter. She believed in voting and voting regularly. For Democrats. Just like her dad.

Part of it was Nixon's fault. In 1972, she sent $50 to the Democrats to help George McGovern's ill-fated attempt at winning the White House. The check was never cashed, never returned. Mother, a meticulous bookkeeper, balanced her checkbook at the end of each month and grumbled loudly each time she still had $50 unaccounted for.

When the Watergate hearings started, she was convinced the Nixon campaign stole the bag of mail containing her check from the Democrats' national headquarters and shredded its contents. After about 20 years, Dad gave her a new checkbook and told her to start fresh. She did, but vowed, "When I get to Heaven, I'm going to spend a half hour in Hell every day grilling Richard Nixon about what happened to my $50."

... If your chewing gum truly loses its flavor on the bedpost overnight, press "8". If you would like to hear a recording of Eartha Kitt singing, "Somebody Bad Stole De Wedding Bell," press "9" ...

In 2000, Mother, now the grandmother of four young men of voting age, took each grandson aside to inform him that he would vote for Democrat Al Gore. One of them, a young Army sergeant, hesitated, then told her he might vote for Bush. Grandma reached to her eye and started to wipe away a tear — at least it looked like that's what she was doing.

But the soldier boy grandson was a tougher nut to crack.

"Grandma," he said, "When I enter that voting booth it's between me and my conscience and my God, and sometimes I don't even tell God how I vote."

He said later, after his ears stopped ringing, that he didn't think Grandma even knew words like that, let alone used them.

Mother died on Oct. 29, 2000. The day before, she mailed off an absentee ballot with Gore's name checked. Someone stuck a Gore-Lieberman bumper sticker on her casket. She would have liked that.

And God help Richard Nixon, wherever he is.

... If you would like to have us forward our messages to your answering machine, press "0" and leave a message stating clearly what times your meals and bedtime take place. If you would like to join the People's Party for Feminist Opportunity and Dogfighting, press "Star". If you would like to hear these messages again, press the "Pound" sign. To leave any other message, take a deep breath and hold it and wait for the beep ...