Maybe it was the sheer dim, shabby, thread-bareness of it all. Maybe it was the dusty church hall, the battered tables, or the elderly volunteers with their lists and stickers. Or the cheap red paper signs reminding potential last minute campaigners (there were none) that they must stand 100 yards from the door to the polling place.Go read the whole thing. It's short and perfect.
I told Atticus as we strolled home that evening that it happens every time: I am amazed, touched and incredulous that I can walk into an elementary school, stand in a rickety booth, darken a few oval spaces with a pencil, and it means something.
h/t: Mark Shea