WHAT HATH PAM WROUGHT?!

         I have done my Civic Duty; I have voted, early and often as we used to say in Pennsylvania. Our place of voting is in the showroom of the local Toyota dealer. Every time I cast my ballot in New York State, I miss the hordes of party workers that made going to the polls in Pennsylvania an exercise in collecting recyclable paper material. Each one would stuff my hands with flyers explaining why I should vote for their candidate. Here I fear a man in a hounds’ tooth sport coat will sell me a Corolla.

         Alone, without cheat sheets, I stood in the booth studying the ballot. There were so many more political parties than in Pennsylvania, but five of the six only allowed me to choose between only three candidates for governor. I pulled a bunch of levers down, gave a glance and was displeased with the lack of symmetry in the pattern produced. I found I could vote for my same choices in a more pleasing way by pulling the Independent, Conservative or Liberal tab. By the time I opened the curtain, my ballot looked like a Wall Street chart.

         Proud of myself and mighty pleased too, I headed home. The dog seemed to be asking about my choices and the candidates' positions on vivisection, but I could not tell her. In this country a man's vote is private, although sometimes I wonder. When we pulled in the drive, my neighbor had left his post by his woodpile. Earlier I could see him; perhaps a quarter mile away, with his power saw, cutting wood. His stack of logs must be another quarter mile from his house, so perhaps the term 'neighbor' is a bit of a misnomer.

         I say that for more reason than distance. Today, November 5, 2002 marks the 665th consecutive day he has not spoken to me. He is a big wig with the State of New York, holding some kind of deputy job, and being a registered Republican. Twice since I have lived here, he has run for Town Supervisor and lost by tiny margins. The last time he was the only Republican to lose in the county.

         Included in that margin was my vote. I wonder if he knows that I have denied him his rightful place so that I could vote for the attorney that represented me at the settlement of my house. He was a good lawyer. Trying to get on his good side and perhaps lower his fee, my wife and I both registered as Democrats, unlike in Pennsylvania where we were independents. In New York, the Independents are a party into themselves, so we did not have that choice.

         Since I crossed that Rubicon, my neighbor's first dialogue to me was to note that my dog was on his property, and his second, in January 2001, was an offer to plow my drive with his tractor. Since I had just done the job with my snowblower, his helping hand was a bit insulting, but as my lawyer surmised, it meant he was planning to run again that year. I think he lost by eight votes.

         Seeing him out cutting wood this morning, I guess I should have felt thankful that he had not barricaded my door to prevent me from getting to the polls. I realize that, as in Pennsylvania, the State government is closed for Election Day, so there is always the chance he will stop by later to chew the fat. Perish the thought. I have no idea what I did with my George Pataki poster. If he finds out that I lost it, he won't talk to me for another year. So I have stationed the dog outside.

         Not only is the ferocious canine out on her chain, but she is guarding HER BONE. The Marines could not invade with Farfel hovering about the magnificent beef bone that came straight out of Pam’s wonderful vegetable soup. She made this nectar for me on Saturday when I visited her. She started after breakfast, putting the bone and lord knows what else into a pot of liquid. I saw a package of mixed vegetables being added, and some onion, bouillon and macaroni. For the next three hours it simmered away on her stove, until we decided it was time to have it for lunch, or rather to have it for the first course.

         Pam and I have a weakness for food. We are not exactly gourmets. Gourmands might be a better description. She remembered how I had filled a loaf of French Bread cut horizontally with ground beef, onion, sour cream, chopped tomatoes and green pepper, and topped it with cheese. She had eaten it as a leftover, but it would be the main course for our midday meal. After all, we had worked very hard sitting at her desk, writing a newsletter. We deserved sustenance.

         “Would Farfel like the bone?” I told her she was not a bone dog, but we could give it a try. Pam put it aside in her refrigerator and we passed the rest of the day in vigorous exercise walking about Home Depot. When we came home from our shopping foray and completed putting together her new lamp, she suggested I take a nap. It was hard to imagine dropping off and missing precious moments with my friend, but a little later I subconsciously felt someone putting a quilt over me and heard in the background Boston College whelming Notre Dame.

         When I woke, it was just past five, but the roast she had put on at lunch was ready, so another gargantuan meal was placed on the groaning board. Afterward, it was hard to move off the sofa, especially with another sated person resting her head in my lap while we watched a movie. The next morning, as I readied myself to leave, Pam handed me the bone, wrapped in tinfoil. Less than four hours later I presented it to Farfel, who had no idea what to do with it. Inspired, I placed it in her bowl. She removed it and began to realize there was meat and fat in the crannies.

         The cat made the mistake of coming near. A lunge and growl set matters right. By today, that former piece of steer has become her constant companion. She carries it about like a woman would carry a handbag. She walks with it in her mouth, whimpering, looking for a safe place to bury it, or at least that is what I THINK she is doing. My thought was partly confirmed this morning when I found her pushing the couch cushion up and depositing it underneath. After I told her that would not do, she dragged it outside.

         The ground is not frozen yet, but Farfel is not a terrier and has not dug a hole since puppyhood. Could it be she is planning to cover it with leaves? I would ask her but I dare not get near her. I need both my hands to type. I can see her through the window in the storm door. She is dozing now, but she just communicated with me as I brought the mail inside. I think she was telling me to vote for my neighbor next time. Ah, yes, here it is in the mail, his election flyer. No wonder Farfel is lobbying for him. He is running on a platform of a John Deere in every garage and two bones in every pot.

Valatie November 5, 2002