Last night, I voted after work. I was one of 29,578 people who voiced a vote in Okaloosa County as the Republican presidential race in Florida came to a close.
I like voting, I always have an opinion (no shock for anyone who knows me) on everything and I think silence can be misconstrued.
The 19th Amendment to the United States Constitution says I can vote. I like knowing that whatever is determined when the voting poles close; I had a part in history. Color me a flag-toting girl.
I’ve voted since I was 18. For many years, I voted in the same concrete block poling place where my father, my grandfather and my great-grandfather voted. I grew up with a Daddy who talked politics, and hunting, and crops and weather. He didn’t like a “crooked” politician and voted to make those convictions known.
But last night in the not so glamorous culling of the Republican candidates vying for Florida’s trove of 50 delegates, I witnessed something amazing.
I gave the poling officials my identification in the alphabetical section for my name. A poll worker was standing with a young man in a line to my left. I overheard their talk about his military identification card and he made comment that he just arrived in the area.
I signed for my ballot, walked over to the small stand and marked the name. The young man, obviously an airman, finished just before me and he stepped toward the machine that devours the personally marked election.
An older man, in a red, white, and blue pole worker shirt watched the process and announced “First time voter, let’s hear it for the first time voter!” Everyone in the place began to applaud. The young man made a modest wave of acknowledgment and stuck his hand out to shake hands with the gentleman who announced his history making moment.
That young man is committed to work for our U.S. Military, the very people who fight around the globe to make us free. To give us that right to vote. His last birthday gave him the privilege to vote. That 26th Amendment to the United States Constitution that set the minimum voting age to be 18. Eighteen is obviously, old enough to serve his Country.
I was touched. I thank you young man. You were part of 29,578 people in our County who voted. But to me, you were a whole lot more than that number; you are what makes the American Dream.

It’s February already. I am at the core of my being, an old-fashioned, sentimental girl. I have a heart that is two sizes too big and I have always made the mistake of wearing it on my sleeve. Yep, I’m a stupid, romantic soul and Valentine’s Day approaches.
I remember my First Grade class party for Valentine’s Day, Mrs. Foster’s class at Mount Pleasant Elementary School (no longer there) near Enterprise, Alabama. We covered shoeboxes with pink, and white, and red construction paper and cut out hearts from tissue paper to decorate it using pasty glue. We penned our names, using our very best first grade handwriting and carefully cut out a slot across the top to serve as a mailbox depository for Valentines.
I worried over each small Valentine. Had to get just the right words to just the right person. Conveying feelings started early. The party I don’t remember, probably red Kool-Aid and cupcakes – but I remember pulling those cards out and reading each one. I remember pulling that box out and reading the little cards over and over again at home. Some folks could have cared less, just wrote their name on the back of the card and put one in each desktop box. But others chose the cards and wrote your name across the little white envelope. I was a sucker at seven for sentimentality.
Life came along and love waxed and waned. However, I am still amazed with “happily ever after” love stories in real life, in books, and movies.
I still agonize over Valentine’s cards. I still spend forever on the card aisle till I find something that is close to how I feel.
Cupid is coming for that overly commercialized holiday and I am smitten with all of its gushy, mushy, maudlin, schmaltzy cards. Still.
Happy Valentine’s Day.

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