It's a lower middle class backwater. I've lived in this town for decades now, but I've never been [View All]

[struggle4progress]

on these streets before today. The houses are small and none of them new

Everything says neighborhood

Glass storm doors are closed against the chill, but behind them many of the main doors are open. Here a little two-story antique, dwarfed by nearby trees, has a real porch, wide and deep with a gabled roof, a place six or eight people could sit comfortably around a table in the summer evening, socializing with each other and anybody walking the street, and from one of several chimneys a plume of smoke rises

On one corner, children just off the school bus are playing together. Now and then, one or another excitedly runs past me into the house to bring a mother to the door I've just knocked. When I'm finished there, several of them are loudly disappointed that I haven't knocked on their door, so I pause for a minute to tell the younger generation what I'm doing and to give them samples of my wares. Minutes later, the children are no longer there: it looks like they've left some school papers where they'd been sitting, but my unexpected political handouts have disappeared with the kids, as if treasure

As I'm knocking one cluster of doors, a car parks in the street. The driver inside listens to music until I approach the door of that house, then and quickly exits: Sir! Can I help you? The tone isn't hostile but it is no-nonsense and watchful. I'm looking for his mother and his sister, who aren't home. I hand him my lit and explain why I think the election is important. He thanks me

Three or four houses down, I'm fumbling to leave my literature on the door when I'm hailed from the street: What are you doing? I ask this man if he lives there, and he says No, but a friend of mine of mine does! So I tell him who I was hoping to find and what I've left on the door after knocking without response. They're not home, he tells me. He takes the papers I offer him and says I ought to visit his house too. He's not on the list. His wife and daughter are, but he says they're still at work. So I give him my quick talk about the election. I always vote, he says. I let him know that's why he's not on my list. He thanks me, too

Near the last cluster of doors, six or eight teenagers are in the street, and they manage, house by house, to be standing at the end of the drive as I knock doors. So I repeatedly brush past, saying hello to one or another. When I'm done, I point out there's an upcoming election and ask if they're registered to vote. They are