Didn’t vote? You missed saying ‘I own you’

I love voting.

There is no greater feeling in the world than going to the voting booth, scribbling in the circles with a perfectly proportioned dark mark, and then feeding the machine to cast my vote that is as important as Mayor Joe’s vote in front of me and Grandma Liberal’s vote behind me.

And I’m not the only one who feels that way. Janet Baker, 3875 14 Mile Rd., put a large, yellow sticky note on the dashboard of her car with the word “Vote” on it to remind her to get out and vote at the primary.


“If I don’t vote,” she said, “[I] really don’t have any right to complain.”

Baker said that if she doesn’t agree with decisions being made within her Sparta Township community, how can she have any grounds to say her opinion if she hasn’t taken the first step to vote?

“Even if it doesn’t turn out the way I hoped it to, at least I made an effort,” she said.

But despite these truths, Michigan’s primary election turnout rate sits at a sad 20 percent.
Sue Bitely, Sparta Township Clerk, helped to run the primary elections on August 5. She said that many people don’t bother to get out to the local elections, especially, because voters don’t think that these elections matter.

“They don’t realize that they’re picking their candidate,” she said, referencing the November elections.

And in some cases, more than a few Republican or Democratic representatives for the election in the fall are chosen during the August primaries.

Supervisors, treasurers and even the Kent County sheriff were chosen this year.

And yet people still choose not to vote because they feel as though their measly vote out of thousands of voters doesn’t matter.

“It won’t change anything anyway,” they say.

But I would beg to differ. I was vote number 32 this year in my precinct, and I couldn’t help but calculate how that single vote affected my specific area. Doing the math, it came out that as of the time I voted, I counted for three percent of my precincts’ decision.

Though I am sure that number dwindled to a lesser amount later in the day, I still was one vote out of 115, or one vote out of 200. My one vote was part of a greater number.

But more than seeing your one vote count in among the total, the greater reason to vote is the ripple effect it can have on those with whom you come in contact.

If I went from being a non-voter to learning about the issues and choosing to vote, I would become more educated on the issues that affect me.

Becoming more informed, I might consider sharing my findings with those around me.

Those that hear me might alter their opinions, and choose to head to the voting booths for the first time, or, at the very least, change their voting style away from “I don’t know, I’ll choose the one with the longest Dutch name.”

Then, we’re getting somewhere. I may be one, but I can influence one more person, who can influence another, who just might be a great public speaker. Then, change can happen.

But even if I never speak to another person and simply become well-informed and cast my vote, then when I want a chance to speak out for or against an issue, I do it from the stance of a voting citizen of this township, state and nation.

Because when I choose to vote, I am saying, “I am a part of you, America. I own you, too. I have a voice.”

We own a piece of this country by exercising our right to vote just like stock buyers own a piece of a company. Voting is saying that dangit, we matter in this country, and dangit, we care where it is heading.

This is why I love voting. I get to say, “I own you, too.”

A non-scientific study on wedding rings

I decided to start wearing a non-wedding ring on a wedding-ring finger.

Though this is a non-scientific study I am conducting with the ring, the results have been very positive and could even fall into the category of what my scientific inquiry professor would call "significant."

Those of you tired of bald, skeezy men checking you out extra long because you don't happen to have a wedding/engagement ring on a certain finger, please consider the following results:

1. While wearing heretofore mentioned ring, there has been a 64 percent decrease in honking and/or hollering and/or slowing down while going for a run.

2. Respect for a woman wearing a fake wedding ring increases by an average of 79 percent from men that fall into the "stranger" category. (Respect is defined as not giving the up-down)

3. Tests are still being conducted, but when driving and a male pursuer begins to hoot/holler/act like he's all that in his Grand Am, a simple non-swearing hand gesture with the left hand has decreased pursuits by a staggering 92 percent.

4. Non-solicited approaches in the mall have decreased by 46 percent. This result may not be desired by some women.

4. Overall happiness, comfort and peace for the life of non-wedding ring wearer is said to increase by 80 percent.

Testing is still being done by the University of Laurieville, but should be completed late fall of 2008.

Two months as a local reporter...[Insert scary music]

It’s my two-month anniversary as a full-time, local reporter, and I am celebrating by sitting down with myself and writing a column.

On second thought, some cake and ice cream sounds good…

I didn’t even notice when the exact two-month date passed, but as I drove the roads intersecting maturing apple trees today, I couldn’t help but realize that I was seeing the area with new eyes.

In all honesty, when I started reporting with this community paper, I was a little leery of the small town, local areas I cover, and I could sense that at times some of those in my territory were distrustful of me.

“Who are these people? And, what are they all about?” I said to myself.

“Who is this girl and what is she all about?” those I interviewed said either verbally or nonverbally.

But, since that shaky beginning, I feel as though I am now starting to hear the heartbeat of Small Town America

They are about each other. They are fiercely proud of their small townships and villages, and would rather not divulge any negative things about their community or the people in it to an “outsider” such as me.

“Now, the last reporter and I had a great relationship,” one interviewee said to me after I asked a question. “I just want to know why you’re asking this.”

In those early days, when I received responses like this, I tried my best to hide my frustration with a forced laugh, inwardly wishing they would know that I was trying my hardest to be “about them,” as well.

But I have noticed that in recent weeks, those with whom I speak are warming up to me. I find myself having more genuine fun, and not feeling so stressed as I increase the amount of time spent in my territory.

It might be because I have changed my approach since the first day I started on the job. I can’t just work—speeding in to do my interviews and then speeding out at the end of the day—I have to stay, sit and shoot the breeze.

And I have. Because of this, I believe I am able to view the villages and townships with a new tenderness.

I notice that the Classifieds section sits on top of the newspaper at the library, reflecting the economic status of these neighbors.

I know the dates of blood drives, I know the effects of hail on apples and I know that building a road isn’t as simple as drawing up a plan and laying asphalt.

I am becoming one of the locals.

My audience may roll their eyes and say that until I have lived there for 20 years, I am not a local.

But, I would beg naysayers to reconsider, and ask them to try to open up their fierce small-town loyalty to this reporter who is trying to do her best to cover their territory, and earn their trust.

My hope for these next two months is to be able to drive into my coverage area and be greeted from residents on the sidewalk with a wave and a smile, because they know that I’m not an outsider and just another reporter, but that I belong because I am their reporter.

Stop pointing fingers at farmers. It's not their fault

When I see hail, I am primarily worried about road conditions and secondarily the status of my hair.

I hate to sound so superficial, but it's true.

When apple farmers see hail, on the other hand, they are primarily worried about their livelihood.

"You take a hail stone that's hard," Apple Farmer Rob Steffens said, "and when if falls, it's going to hit something soft like the fruit, and it's going to damage it ... That fruit can no longer be targeted for fresh market or stores."

I don't view hail as anything more than an annoying, occasionally dangerous form of precipitation. But for those whose bread and butter comes from the success of a crop that is susceptible to the ferocity of the skies, they see an enemy.

Farmers in the Fruit Ridge Avenue growing area were recipients of only a few, brief showers of hail the first week of July. However, it was enough to cause significant financial damage.
Steffens, of Steffens' Orchards on 13 Mile Road, said all it takes is a couple minutes."Two minutes of hail," Steffens said, "costs so much money."

The two minutes of hail during the July 2 and 3 storms could cause an average loss of over $100,000 to each apple farmer.

When I first looked at those numbers, I couldn't believe it. How could such a brief encounter with the skies cost so much?

A farmer down the road from Steffens who also suffered hail damage to his apples said something initially humorous, but later raised concern.

"If apple prices in the market are a little more this year...it's not because we're being mean or something," apple farmer John Rasch said. "It's Mother Nature being mean to us. Blame her."

In saying this, Rasch immediately stood on the defensive side of consumers who will go to the market this fall. He knows that people are complaining about gas and food prices, and possibly he senses people pointing fingers at him.

This theme was true when I talked with strawberry farmers a few weeks ago who had to up their prices because of the cost of gasoline and the effects of frost.

Gail Morse, of the Morse Brothers Farm, 2924 6 Mile NW, seemed to stand on the defense when explaining price adjustments at her farm.

"What, $3?" Morse said she hears from customers about the $.50 per quart price increase. "Being on the other side," said Morse, "raising prices--that's no fun either."

It isn't that local farmers are creating some sort of American consumer conspiracy theory. We hear, we read, we write and we complain about rising food and gas prices like it's our job.

But the fault does not lie with those whose actual job is to provide the food we eat. They are susceptible to rising gas prices--and Mother Nature--just like the rest of us. And in the case of Mother Nature, farmers are even more vulnerable.

So before we open our mouths again about rising gas prices or food prices, let's make sure that we're not placing blame on farmers who are trying to make it just like every other construction worker, teacher and journalist.

And the next time we see hail in the forecast, let's remember to say a prayer for the local farmers down the road who will feel the effects of the storm at a greater level than our hairdos.

Baby Boomers and Gen Y: We may be more alike than you think

A fellow journalist, Jan Holst, is a part of the baby-boomer generation. She falls in the same generational category as my parents and many people whom I interview on a daily basis.

Jan said this week that she believes she and I can connect so well because of similarities in our generations. After some thought and study, I agree with her perspective.

Though Jan and others I work with are older than me, I’m not intimidated by these men and women in their fifties and sixties. I see Jan as a friend and a co-worker who can guide me.

It may be because I have come to the point in life where I can look my parents in the eye and ever-so-respectfully disagree with them, but I think that there is a deeper truth to some overarching similarities between myself and the generation who calls themselves the Baby Boomers.

Imperfectly defined, the Baby Boomer generation is those born between 1946 and 1964. Generation X-ers are those born between 1965 and 1977, and Generation Y, my generation, is those born between 1978 and 1987.

My age may be closer to those in Generation X, but because of current events, the tone of my generation more closely resembles that of the Boomers.

They were born into a world that was recovering from the ravages of WWII. They soon entered another war, Vietnam, which was looked at negatively by the majority of the United States. This is not unlike the war in Iraq today.

Bonnie Robinson, Sparta Township clerk and born in 1948, said she remembers her brother going off to Vietnam.

“He never wanted to talk about it when he came home,” she said. “And he still never talks about it.”

She said it was an unpopular war.

“A lot of people didn’t support it after a while. I can remember on TV all those anti-war protests,” Robinson said. “It is kind of like Iraq now.”

Support for the Iraq war is at an all-time high since 2006 sitting at 53 percent. This is a slim majority that has kept our country divided. This division and the ensuing protests of the 1960s hippies calling for peace mimic the protests by “hipsters” asking for peace on Capital Hill today.

Mini-protests are continued in a 21st century way with bumper stickers that even say “Vietnam II: Now playing in select Iraqi cities,” and groups on Facebook titled “21st Century Hippies.”

My generation knows what it’s like to live in a world where an unpopular war is so far away and yet seems so close because of the physical effects of our brothers, sisters and friends with whom we just graduated high school.

“I just remember thinking, ‘Oh, I wish my brother was home,’” Robinson said, sounding much like families who say goodbye to their siblings, boyfriends and girlfriends to Iraq in recent years.

Maybe this is why it doesn’t seem like I need to small talk much before getting into interviews with those who are even 40 years older than me. Or, maybe I’m just acting out of my generation which has been said to be “Generation X on steroids” who comes with a sense of entitlement for getting what we want.

An article in USA Today quoted Jordan Kaplan, an associate managerial science professor at Long Island University-Brooklyn in New York, on this subject.

“Generation Y is much less likely to respond to the traditional command-and-control type of management still popular in much of today's workforce," he said. "They've grown up questioning their parents, and now they're questioning their employers. They don't know how to shut up, which is great, but that's aggravating to the 50-year-old manager who says, 'Do it and do it now.’”

But before 50-year-old managers start to complain about us Gen Y “whipper-snappers,” they should remember the defiance of their generation against “the man” in the 60s and 70s. These movements include but are not limited to movements for women and minorities such as the 200,000-person walk led by Martin Luther King Jr. in 1963.

I know there are more similarities and differences than war and the need to defy, but if we look closely, we can see at least one primary similarity that draws us together:

Our voices may be loud, demanding, and at times, irritating, but some of what we have to say—like those in the Boomer generation—is true.

So, as my generation continues to graduate from college and join the workplace with men and women have been in their career field for over thirty years, Boomers need not roll their eyes.
They should just see us as co-workers and maybe even as friends who can relate at a deeper level than they know.

Why Jesus loves homosexuals

On Tuesday, June 14, California had its first full day of legalized, gay marriage, and some Americans are reacting negatively.

A few protestors outside of the Contra Costa county clerk’s office in California held signs that said, “God is your enemy,” according to an article on CNN. They were from Westboro Baptist Church.

Other groups in San Francisco and Beverly Hills waved signs that said, “Repent or Perish.”
Another article by iReport.com lists comments from the general public. One reporter on the site said, “GOD DID NOT CREATE ADAM AND STEVE! IT WAS ADAM AND EVE! HE CREATED MAN AND WOMAN! Homosexuals who say they go to church make me sick!! Read the bible, idiots!”

This is where I draw the line.

I do read the Bible, and I do believe that homosexuality is a struggle and a choice, but to condemn people because of choices they make is sin equal to the one self-proclaimed homosexuals commit.

The iReport commenter encouraged promoters of the decision in California to read the Bible. If that individual, along with those who protested saying that “God is your enemy,” would study the Bible more carefully, they would see a God that contradicts the venom they are spouting with their mouths and signs.

The fourth Gospel of the Bible talks about a woman caught in the act of adultery. Religious people surrounded the woman, ready to stone her. But Jesus—the very representation of God—walks up to the crowd and says, “All right, stone her. But let those who have never sinned throw the first stones!” ( John 8:7, NLT)

Jesus then writes in the dust. Many sermons I have heard have tried to theorize what he drew on the ground, but I am convinced that he wrote some of faults of the religious people: Gossip, slander, lying or the names of people they had lusted after—all sins equal to the one of the adulterous woman.

“Where are your accusers?” asked Jesus, when the religious men had left. “Didn’t even one of them condemn you?”

“No, Lord,” she said.

“Neither do I.”

Jesus wouldn’t carry signs that say, “Repent or Perish,” and he certainly wouldn’t need to remind others of the names of the people he created.

Instead, I believe he would sit on the steps of the county clerk’s office and talk with those who were waiting in line to be married. I guarantee he would give out hugs, cry with people and ask to hear their stories. I am certain he would be clear about how he felt about their choices, but if Jesus can forgive me, he can forgive them.

Maybe I could argue that I don’t picket and carry signs against the couples in California, but how many of us carry signs in our hearts?

When was the last time I laughed at a joke where a homosexual was the punch line? When was the last time I heard someone use the word “gay” as an adjective, and didn’t correct them?
When was the last time I made a judgment about someone based on their appearance or mannerisms, and wrote them off as second-rate?

“These people honor me with their lips, but their hearts are far away,” says Mark 7:7. We say we are good people and some of us even say we are Christians, but to wear that badge means we must actually be like the real Jesus.

This past week, I interviewed Jim Mikula, promoter of the nationally recognized lawnmower racing competition in Sparta, Mich. that benefits Huntington’s disease research. He said something that stuck with me.

Mikula said that everyone should have a cause or a person for whom they are an advocate.

“Every person should pick some person or some thing,” he said, “and we’d be a lot better off.”
So what is my cause? I knew immediately after he said it.

It is the people who are lining up the steps of the clerk’s office in California to be married right now, because they are just like me: Sinners that Jesus loves.

Donating blood? Maybe next time

Who really likes to give blood?

You sign up to have somebody stab a needle in you, steal your life-blood and then guide you dazedly to the cookie table so you can scarf them down before you pass out.

And sometimes, you do pass out. One of my friends said that the nurse accidentally hit an artery, and the bag filled up in two seconds. He was out faster than you could say “red blood cell.”

It doesn’t exactly sound like my idea of fun.

This is probably why I’ve spent the last six years I’ve been eligible to give blood, avoiding every donation possible.

“Oh, yeah, I have, uh, class then, and I can’t miss,” I said in high school.

“Ooh, I wish I could, but I just got back from Africa,” I said in college, “Rats.”

But I was out of excuses and the pressure was on. A funny thing happens when you write articles about communities doing blood donation such as at Casnovia Reformed Church. Suddenly, people are asking you to be there to give blood.

“I’m going to have to check my calendar,” I said, laughing it off. Somewhere, deep down, I knew that I would end up donating.

I arrived that fateful Monday afternoon scanning my brain for reasons why I couldn’t do it.

I was in Africa last summer, I had a strange hack-cough and I’m sure I’m hypoglycemic. I started rattling off a couple of these concerns to the nurses and sent them running to their books to see if South Africa was okay, and if my hack-cough would interfere.

“Do you feel an overall sense of health?” asked one doctor.

“Yes,” I said, reluctantly.

“You said you were in Cape Town?” asked another nurse.

“Yes,” I said, hopefully.

“Oh, well, that’s fine, then,” she said.

Shoot.

I think the volunteers could tell I wasn’t so thrilled about giving blood.

“Do you really want to do this?” whispered Rose, the nurse assigned to get me prepped for the stab. “Because, I can deny you right now, if you want.”

“Oh, no,” I said, laughing, “I want to do it,” and tried to cover up my apparent fear. Be brave, Laurie.

I went through the check list with Rose, and everything came out okay.

“All that’s left now is the iron check,” she said.

I didn’t pass. I was one point too low.

What? I couldn’t believe it. The next few minutes were a blur: People were making sure I still got my free T-shirt, had signed up to win a plasma-screen T.V. and were asking if I wanted a hot dog or cookies.

I don’t need this stuff, I thought. I didn’t even do anything. The free T-shirt felt like lead in my hands.

For all of my complaining and sheer-terror at the thought of watching my blood exit my body, I wanted to help.

Didn’t I just interview Kona Kenny, mobile recruiter for Michigan Community Blood Center, who said that three people benefit every time I give blood?

I want to help three people. I want to earn my T-shirt and I want to get a sticker that says “Be nice to me, I gave blood today.”

Some of the kind volunteers tried to help me find a sticker that would be appropriate, but no such sticker exists that says, “Don’t be nice to me, I tried to give blood and failed.”

I guess I’ll just have to work on my iron level … and courage, and wait until next time—and next time better be a lot sooner than six years.