In honor of election day in America, here are three very different – and non-political - stories (despite how two of them might appear at first).
 
One

I spent three hours on two recent Sundays knocking on doors for my favorite candidates. (I’m consciously avoiding politics here. I actually changed parties more than 15 years ago. As Churchill would put it, I “ratted.” He, rather uniquely, changed parties twice, and was proud to claim that he had “re-ratted”).
 
My assignment was not to convert anyone. Instead, I was given an app to which I downloaded a list of addresses and contacts of fellow party members in the neighborhoods to which I was assigned. My instructions were basically to make sure that my contacts had a plan to vote.
 
As soon as I parked my car across the street from one assigned house, I could hear 2 way-too-excited snarly dogs inside. As I approached the house, both dogs were raging across the back of the couch in front of their picture window, barking even more uninvitingly, even jumping at the window in the hopes of getting at me. I wondered for a minute if I should just move on to the house next door, but assumed (hoped?) the resident would have her dogs under control. Just as I was about to knock, I saw a small wooden sign next to the door.
 

No Need to Knock
We know You’re Here
(The Dogs)

Although my presence was established, no one came to the door, which I will admit was a relief.
 
Two

I voted in my small town this morning. Our local polling place is a church that’s close enough to walk to. We can always count on seeing volunteers who are neighbors, as well as other neighbors in line. Whatever nasty things you might hear about politics these days, this site was a warm oasis, the way we might wish it to be. After casting my ballot, I walked outside, and noticed that one of the political parties had an assortment of candies on their table, including red-licorice Twizzlers. I haven’t had them in years, and asked if I could take a pack, which of course was OK. But then a gentleman standing beside the table walked over with a grave look and put his hand on my shoulder. He leaned in and practically whispered: “I just want to ask you one question. Where do you come out on the side of black vs. …” (And here I’m thinking … Oh God, I don’t need this) “… red licorice.” We shared a good laugh and shook hands.
 
Three

When my wife Barbara and I took a trip to Glacier National Park in Montana in September, I noticed a meaningfully-positioned lost glove out of the corner of my eye. Feel free to add your own interpretation. Mine, of course, is that I was and am on a good path, and the spirit of Winston Churchill is OK with me writing about him.

Thanks for reading,
Bill
 
PS: Red licorice. Every time.