String beans, snap beans…Boomer beans

March 7th, 2017 No comments »

To anthropomorphize the flora, the huge maple in my grandparents’ backyard saw much. Granddad built that house by hand in the 1920s and the tree was already big. It became a host to the 7-year locusts that arrived when I was 5 and again at 12 and 19. Their translucent leavings were great sport and science and art.

You can peek behind my sister and me to see part of the massive maple’s trunk. We are between the BBQ and the picnic table Granddad added. We had just returned from being part of the Occupation Army in Japan. Our parents had divorced. She and I were jolly and good friends.

Under that tree there was no smithy but it was a neighborhood and family witness. Not the least of the events were vegetable related. Sure, we had hundreds of family and extended family gatherings there, but the bees were more frequent and memorable.

I can display my BY-CRACKY card here. My three sons did not grow up with my country trappings. The youngest is 23 and his cohort is far less likely to have cultivated beans. For many, the term string bean is only an insult for a skinny kid and not a thing. It’s like when they see a typewriter or an old computer keyboard with RETURN on one on the keys where Enter is now.  As millennials might say, “What does that even mean?”

Baskets of beans

Under that tree gathered conscripted labor (we kids), my Grandmother Mable’s sister Ann, Suzy Cunningham from across the yard, Mrs. Heinz from catercorner, and sometimes Mable’s brother’s families.

Mable and Granddad played a vegetable game. Come harvest and canning time, she’d say to him, “Bill, I could use a few beans (or peas or limas or whatever).” He and I grew his gardens. He called them diminutively patches. As his coworker, I knew they were an acre or more each — big.

A few beans meant several bushels. He and I bent to the task and the next day would deliver these. Mable would deliver the hands. Of course, they came for both the social aspect and a cut of the harvest.

Stringing and shucking

For you dazzling urbanites and young folk, know that green beans used to have inedible spines, those strings, hence string beans. To prepare them for cooking or canning, you’d hold the bean in one hand, snap the top with the other and peel the string the length of the bean, discarding the string.

In most situations, you’d also snap the bean into bit-sized pieces. Hence, snap bean.

For their part, lima beans and peas were hell on thumbs and definitely not the kids’ favorite. You’d need to squeeze the pod with both thumbs, pop it open, then run a finger the length of the pod to extract the goodies into a bowl. Repeat hundreds or thousands of times.

Adults got into a rhythm. There was lubricating iced tea, and gossip, and teasing, and family stories.

In the end, the women each left with a stock of beans or peas to enjoy, or an oral voucher for jars of the canned goods. We kids got meager offerings of Fudgsicles or maybe homemade ice cream. Our thumbs were red and sore. The gossip and family tales were less thrilling.

 

Share

Granddad Broke His Leg

February 4th, 2017 1 comment »

A family horror story immediately came to mind when I saw the new object d’art in the main lobby of Boston’s South Station. If you loved trains growing up as I did and if you played with model-train sets, you’d recognize the coupling, even at 9 feet tall. It has special meeting to me.

My maternal grandfather, William Michael, worked the B&O for 48 years until they forced him to retire. He met one of these in a bad way in his early 50s.

Management lesson

As he told it, he knew better but was impatient. As he yard foreman in Cumberland, MD, he told his crew to climb up to the control wheels on top the cars to manually open the coupling when it would not connect two cars just by pushing them together. He didn’t wait when they couldn’t do it.

He took the little ladder up and was doing the work when he fell. As he did, the cars moved and the coupling linked…with him between, breaking his upper right leg in three or four places.

He found himself in his backyard for a couple of months with a cast from his waist down, on the broken side to his heel.

Lemonade

Meanwhile, my sister and I were kindergarten age and had recently returned from being part of the Occupation Army in Japan. Our parents had divorced and our father quickly remarried (a sordid tale for another time).

He and his new wife were stationed back in Fort Sill, OK, my sister and my birthplace. While our mother had full legal custody, she was trying to be a good scout and agreed when he requested that we spend the summer with them there.

That turned out to be a bad gesture. They decided at the end of the summer when he got orders to move to a base in Germany that they’d take my sister and me with them. So is the lesson never to trust an ex or that an officer is not necessarily an honorable gentleman?

They sent a telegram to my mother, who was then staying near her family in the Eastern panhandle of West Virginia. Locale became important. It was before Internet highways and it was a couple of days’ drive, which she immediately planned upon receiving the shocking wire.

Despite his immobile, plaster-cast condition, Granddad was ready to help his daughter. They got into his car and headed to Southern OK. He somehow managed to operate the pedals and they took turns driving.

On arrival, they went into court as a local lawyer they had contacted arranged. Despite my stepmother and father doing their best marketing effort, apparently my sister and I were not at all convinced that we’d be “better off” with them overseas. The judge quickly ruled that our mother had full custody and that meant what it said. Done and done.

Backyard satori

With the melodrama resolved, the four of us headed back to Romney, still an intact family. So, what’s a crippled, healing railroader to do?

Years later I got the answer to that directly from him. We’d l long been buddies, I much more than any of the other grands. My sister and I spent summers with these grandparents and I worked his massive (one-acre) gardens with him.

We talked of pesky rabbits, his evolution from pesticides to organic, family, railroading, town history and on and on. However, I think I figured I knew more about him than I really did, just from seeing and hearing over the years.

Eventually in my late teens, I got to a seminal question — how could he remain so placid with such a nasty wife? My grandmother was mean and insulting to me, my sister and mother, my maternal aunt, her own sister who also lived in Romney, and of course her husband. She made some of us fume and others cry.

It had taken me years to ask myself the related question, why did he work into the night on the B&O, run his tailor and dry cleaning shop and even do volunteer work, then spend the summer days laboring in these gardens? I knew he gave away most of what he grew to the less fortunate, but why work so hard? That answer finally revealed itself — that got him away from his unpleasant wife, keeping the peace.

His answer to my underlying question of his attitude started with his usual beatific smile and soft words.

When he was in the backyard, hobbled in the massive cast, he remained his usual impatient, doer self. He read every book in the house and those people brought him, then magazines like Reader’s Digest and Life, which the got, plus the Romney and Cumberland newspapers.

Then he thought.

He said that one sunny afternoon, more than a thought came to him suddenly. He realized with his essence what mattered. If his wife for whatever reason struck out at so many, including him, that truly wasn’t important. He instantly shifted from as irritated as others. He transcended her nastiness and was out of reach.

In other words, amid the rose bushes, within sight of the 4 foot square goldfish pond, across the yard from the picnic table, brick BBQ and massive maple, he was enlightened. It wasn’t that he would no longer pay attention to her nasty words. They were no longer triggers.

He was sure he never would have arrived there without his broken leg and forced meditation. In the end, not a bad way to spend the summer, eh? Rescue your grandchildren and come to peace. What did you do last summer?

 

 

Share

Bully (Boy) for the Blizzard

January 7th, 2017 No comments »

Those whose parents trundled them off to factories to watch candy bars, Q-TIPS® or Fords being made, know there is a more adult alternative. We skidded six and one-half miles in a blizzard this afternoon to keep our tour appointment at Bully Boy Distillers.

Better than shoveling snow or fighting crowds for the last gallon of milk, the tour was worth the $10. (I note here that a long time ago, we toured the chateau of the original Cognac, Otard. They poured liberally, even by French standards. At the end of the tour, the very jolly group bought phenomenal amounts of the brown juice. Good marketing ploy.)

I took notes and intended to write up a walk-through. Then I saw that Boston Bar Hopper had already done that, with pix and product descriptions. You should go there and enjoy that.

Note that:

  • Bully Boy has moved its main operations across the street from 35 to 44 Cedric Street
  • The primary still was 150 gallons that is still at 35 and devoted to their Estate Gin
  • The new primary is 750 gallon and gorgeous
  • The Bar Hopper tour included tastes of six types of their booze. Today’s had eight — American Straight Whiskey, White Whiskey, Boston Rum, White Rum, Vodka, Estate Gin, Hub Punch, and The Old Fashioned

 

Our tour guide Alex knows more about cooperage and barrel aging (first American Whiskey for 3 years the dark rum for 3) than you or I. Cost, origin, legal requirements, reasons for using them for this or that drink. Listen and learn.
The new site centers on a 750-gallon still. The old 150-gallon is across the street and for gin. The rums and whiskeys start here.
Paired with the still is a bubble column for drawing off the booze at various proofs. They might be at 160 proof (80% alcohol) before dilution and barrel aging. By the bye, Bully Boy used the great Boston water via the Quabbin Reservoir (we concur).
Subtly on the shelves below the antique bottles from great-granddad’s speakeasy hooch are some Bully Boy bottles adorned with some of their many medals.
The barrel room for aging has maybe 120 of them. Whiskey and dark rum sit for 3 years in one of these. They hold 53.5 gallons each (roughly 300 bottles). After the whiskey has aged, the same barrel ages dark rum. After another 3 years, they sell the barrels to craft-beer makers.
The specific oak for the barrels is now rare and the barrel prices have roughly tripled. Alex said they locked in a very good rate years ago for the handmade barrels.

Pix Notes: You’re welcome to anything useful. They are Creative Commons, so just cite Mike Ball once. Click images to enlarge.

In the Bar Hopper post and on the Bully Boy site, several great tidbits thread through. Apparently the Willis guys, Will and Dave, had a fascinating great-granddad. The latter was a college classmate of Theodore Roosevelt (must have been Harvard the Fly Club). He apparently was a bootlegger who ran a speakeasy. They guys found a walled-in room in his basement chock-a-block with old booze, with known names like Bacardi and gone ones like Very Old Cow Whiskey. The distillery displays some of these.

They named their business for their ancestor’s favorite draft horse, a gigantic beast named in turn to Teddy’s, “Bully!,” catchphrase.

Snowy Afternoon

To our particular blizzard experience, we loved getting samples of the eight current Bully Boy products at one time in one place. Alex started each of us by putting a light cocktail in our hands before we began. It was the prepared Hub Punch from a found 19th Century Boston recipe mixed with something like ginger ale…a harmless diversion while we gawked at the distilling hardware and watched Alex’s little beagle in the next room.

  • American Straight Whiskey – really the lead booze of BBD, it is kind of like bourbon but not as sweek because it hkas 45% rye. The dryness offsets any innate sweetness. My wife and I both like this, although I’ll take a good bourbon (think Woodford reserve) in the price range.
  • White Whiskey – fundamentally milder, safe moonshine (only 40%/80 proof). Not barrel aged. My wife liked it. I found it oily, like tequila.
  • Boston Rum – their dark rum is beautifully aged and complex. We both liked it.
  • White Rum – pleasant, harmless, good for mixing, but a taste and smell weak cousin of the dark version.
  • Vodka – made with corn. This extremely smooth vodka could easily sneak up on you.
  • Estate Gin – my wife has gotten to like gin, particularly American-style botanical varieties such as Berkshire’s Ethereal limited edition ones. Hearing the description of this one, she really expected to love it. Alas, she figures they used too many herbs or the wrong ones. I found undertones of sharp flavors, like a cinnamon bite.
  • Hub Punch – one of two gimmicks to my way of thinking. This is what we got at the sart. By itself, it is too thick and sweet. As a cocktail, you could do a lot better with their American Whiskey or Boston Rum.
  • The Old Fashioned – not a bad gimmick. This is a premixed cocktail and a pretty good one.

Fortunately for the tour, each taste was a splash. No one got tipsy and we got to consider each of the eight samples without them stepping on each other. When a single whiskey at a bar can cost $10 or $20, $10 for the eight samples was a good deal. Plus, we got snappy patter.

 

 

Share

Stuffing, dressing and one vulgarity

December 26th, 2016 No comments »

Back to yesterday and yesteryear, the stuff of stuffing emerges. Most of us, it seems, just know what is supposed to go in the roast bird. Our grannies or other family cooks did the perfect version — in our hazy memories. Anything different or less fails.

I too grew up with plugged up and trussed turkeys, ducks, chickens and geese. I am honestly indifferent to stuffing on my own and really prefer the control over the appearance, flavor and cooking times with an empty carcass. If you really want the best flavors and looks, cook a hollow bird.

However, do not delude yourself; holiday food fans want to see and smell (and in a perverted Proust madeleine moment) fully recall and relive stuffings of childhood. I advise acquiescing and producing the expected here. You can be creative with the rest of the bird and meal. At the least concentrate on a groaning board of beautiful, memorable appetizers.

Yesterday was the Christmas feast for a dozen. We did not go to mass on Christmas, rather massed for languid frivolity, gift and jest swapping and popping Christmas crackers.

As I prepared stuffing for the too-big turkey, I thought back to a Thanksgiving nearly 50 years ago in an alley in Cambridge, MA, with the grandiloquent address of King Place. It is a quarter block long, dead ended and perpetually shabby.

Oh, 10 or a dozen of us college types shared this narrow house of four tiny apartments in a brick building cheek to jowl with the next. We did not know each other except in pairs or small subgroups before moving there, but heck it was Thanksgiving away from family and friends. We’d make our own communal feast.

Then as now I was the primary cook. Our house consensus though included two essentials. First, we needed a sizable turkey, and second, it had to come from the oven extruding bread stuffing. Then democracy and family became obvious. We were all WASPy types, but our family and regional differences became pronounced. Each of us knew exactly what was necessary for a proper stuffing.

We had outlying votes for oysters, chestnuts and other favorites from other homes. We ended up agreeing as youth are wont on too many, just to make sure everyone would fork through to find the right bites. As I recall, in addition to the requisite cubed junk bread, stuffing stuff included celery onion, walnuts, prunes AND raisins, onion, poultry seasoning, pepper, salt, sausage and more and more.

I finished prep with far more than the turkey or any bird short of an ostrich could have held. Hence came the trays of patties, morphing from stuffing to dressing. My companion of the period loudly dubbed the patties buffalo turds. She was born in North Dakota, but more to the point, she was charming and attractive enough that she could and did get away with such vulgarities. I am sure to this day there are a few from the house who will refer to dressing patties that way.

We were all happy with our democratically derived stuffing and dressing.

Flash forward

Back to fewer than 24 hours ago, our Christmas feast benefited from that memory. I relented and decided to stuff the gigantic bird.

I’m not much for too easy and quick. Those result in bland or worse. I think Stop Top stuffing is more like wood wool, a.k.a. excelsior, than food. I fell back on childhood, King Place, restaurant, and previous stuffing goes. Still I was surprised as virtually all at the table went on about the stuffing.

  • The previous day, I cubed two family sized, thick sliced loaves of junk white bread into a huge bowl.
  • I added things that wouldn’t go bad, including 12 ounces of chopped walnuts, two teaspoons of kosher salt, a teaspoon of black pepper and a teaspoon of powdered sage. I mixed these and left the lid off for the cubes to harden up a little.
  • I cooked the turkey neck and giblets to death, removed the neck meat and minced everything. to this, I added a pound of smoked ham run through the food processor. These meats rested overnight in the fridge. Separately, two cups of turkey broth from giblet cooking cooled overnight.
  • I minced two medium onions, one long celery stalk, the celery core including the fine leaves, and a half cup of fresh parsley. Those too rested in the fridge.
  • Early in the morning, I ran about 12 ounces of rinsed baby bella mushrooms, stems included, through the food processor.
  • I got the broth from the fridge and microwaved a cup of golden raisins in it on high for two minutes. The idea was to pre-plump the raisins before stuffing the bird.
  • I heated a stick of unsalted butter and softened the onion mixture, and added the mushrooms.
  • All the ingredients went into the jammed bowl (I have some huge bowls) in the sink to permit an occasional errant lump. When all were squished by hand, I pressed as much as possible into the body and neck cavities of the dry-brined turkey. Six hours and one turning later, the bird received much praise.

To me, stuffing is merely a side dish. Yet, it got the level of compliment a well scrubbed, smelling and looking deb would have at the ball.

We should not overlook or deride simple pleasures. As one of Robert Frost’s poems concludes, “One could do worse than be a swinger of birches. ”

 

 

Share

Midtown, snow, long legs and a tree

December 22nd, 2016 No comments »

Here in Boston, the light snow on Christmas week reminds me of Radio City Music Hall. A dear family friend, Evelyn Justice, took it on herself to guide my sister and me to our first Christmas spectacular there in 1963.

We waited in barricade queues, caught snowflakes on our coat sleeves and tongues, and grokked the Midtown essence of Christmas at Rockefeller Center. Yes, gigantic tree. Yes, ice skaters. Yes, a stage awash with long-legged Rockettes. Yes, a first-run movie.

Pic note: Public domain image by U.S. Navy Photographer’s Mate 2nd Class Gabriela Hurtado, 2006.

Evelyn was my biscuit lady. More on her here.

We’d known her as little ones in far Southern Virginia (Danville). We were delighted years later when we moved from rural Virginia (Chester) to New Jersey (Plainfield) to learn that she and hubby Rollins Justice (Justice to everyone) had moved there before us.

Evelyn was the kindest, most gracious, most empathetic human I’ve ever known. Of course, she’d be the one who wanted to take us to Radio City. I played chess too and she knew that two blocks away Brentano’s had a magnificent selection of boards and pieces.

She made even waiting on line fun, with jokes and stories of her childhood and things we didn’t remember about ourselves. We saw the wonderfully garish kick-dance show, kind of like Vegas showgirls, minus the decolletage and jiggling breasts. As I recall, they twirled mini-hula hoops that glowed under the lights around their calves and ankles. And the flick with Charade, starring the unnatural cervix lovely Audrey Hepburn.

I’ve been to the center since, seen the shows and tree, and of course the skaters. They aren’t as magical without Evelyn. She died in 1997. She was swell.

Share

The bloggers are dead. Long live the money makers.

December 12th, 2016 No comments »

laptop keysToday, Meetup sent around the obituary for The Greater Boston Area Webloggers Meetup Group. It was not so much a changing of the guard or the end of an era as a faint echo of T.S. Eliot’s The Hollow Men — “This is the way the world ends. This is the way the world ends. Not with a bang but a whimper.”

Founded in 2002, the group was some slag in the furnace from when the fuel was content. Depending on your seat, in this era of Instagram and Twitter, blogging has evolved or devolved into self-marketing. We bloggers always wore clothes woven of our egos. Now though the abstract is insignificant. The literal minded own the field.

Yes, there are blogging groups in and around Boston. The real difference is that we are hard pressed to find one that does not concern itself almost entirely with monetization. A couple of years ago, success came in “creating your brand,” and now it is exclusive in the measurements. How many clicks, links, and cash payments?

We are too close to this, at least I am, to say the new form is inferior. In fact, we need only go back, way back to Samuel Johnson, from his Life of… Vol. III, to read, “No man but a blockhead ever wrote except for money.”

Yet of course, many did and do. There’s the vanity. There’s the conceit. There’s the drive to record and announce our brilliance and insight. There’s the hope to alter minds and change the course of events. Blah, blah. Blockheads all? Maybe.

Back to the 14-year-old just taken off the respirator, Meetup had warned us that without a replacement coordinator, it would be shut down. There had been a few managers over the years. Flaky (my description, not her given name or formal epithet) Emma was in charge when I attended. No one, including I, was inclined to take on the clerical work involved.

I have my own excuses and reasons. I’ve run several non–profits and professional groups long term and am worn out. I am sure many of the peak 102 membership can whinge right along in tune with me.

Plainer, blogging for its own sake remains a solitary endeavor. Yes, there are group blogs, think BlueMassGroup, and fame-paying freeloaders, think Huffington Post, but people who want and need their ideas in the ether don’t really need to meet regularly with others like themselves.

The new classes though do. What can you do for me? What can we benefit each other with links and contacts? Are you ready to marvel in my latest glory?

I acknowledge only that the old Boston bloggers group is dead. I kicked some dirt on it by my indifference.

 

Share

Old coots, chaws and vegetable display

November 19th, 2016 No comments »

The farmers’ co-op in Romney WV was integral to my childhood. It had been moribund, then closed after long-time manager Fred Judd had a dreadful fall from which he never really recovered.

Just this week, it’s reopening in a form I would not have recognized. It is now the Hampshire County Co-op & Market Place. It offers local artists’ work and fancy food. The promo on the town FB page includes, “PS: Eric Hott’s smoked bacon pieces dipped in dark chocolate will change your life forever!”

That’s not the way I knew it.

Next door to the co-op on South Marsham Street was my grandfather’s tailor/dry cleaning shop. Abutting that was the family house where I spent summers and holidays. For a peripatetic  lad and his sister, that town and that specific street were home. We moved every couple of years but Marsham Street was always there for us.

We could sit on the front porch (and did often) watching as rain storms sheeted down the mountains before us, first wetting the apple and peach orchards.

Two doors down was a playground inside the co-op. The manager, Carl, let us play. In the big room by the entrance were bins of seed. If a farmer or gardener needed just a few pounds of corn to plant, he could fill a bag using a tin ladle and weigh it out. Likewise, you could get 16-penny spikes loose.

We kids were fascinated with the offerings. We’d also bury a toy in the seeds and challenge each other in a primitive hide-and-seek.

For the big games, the warehouse was filled with 50- and 100-pound bags of seed, feed, flour and such. We’d hide, chase each other and play battle with pea shooters.

Back in the front was a pot-bellied stove, replete with one to six old men. Several were excellent at sitting on nail kegs across from the stove and accurately spitting a big drop maybe 10 feet into the teardrop openings of the stove grate.

They’d tell true tales or maybe lies about their farms and WWI times and such. Highlights included remarkable vegetables they grew, like a 14-inch long bean pods. As I recall McCaslan was the usual champion bean.

I loved the stories and characters who told them. The co-op was a social club for them and me.

Next time I’m in town, I’ll surely visit the artisinal food and art version. I am pretty sure there’ll  be no stove glowing red and certainly tno tobacco-spitting performances.

 

Share

Splayed Social Skills

October 30th, 2016 No comments »

Occasionally, I wear a kilt. That has become a family thing.

alkiltMy first daughter-in-law, wife of our eldest son, is singularly proud of her Scottish heritage. She’s not a skirt/dress person, but does wear a kilt. Our son does too and so does their son. He is one of the two males pictured here; you can decide which is his image and which mine.

A Scottish neighbor discussed the manners and mindfulness involved in kilt wearing. His was a long tale about a wedding. He was in the groom’s party and sat in the nave during the ceremony. Of course, as a Scott, he was kitted in kilt.

During the wedding, he wondered what dementia gripped his wife and other family members. The women he could see gesticulated repeatedly in some indecipherable sign language He smiled faintly by way of acknowledging them but did not get the message until after the nuptials.

mbdouglasTurns out, the women in the pews were trying strongly to say, “Close your damned legs!’

He was, as I do, wearing his kilt traditionally  — with no clothing underneath. The whole church other than those standing or seated with the wedding principals had no doubt of his gender.

I thought I had gotten the hang of it. I observed other kilt wearers and saw that most men push the front material in a fold between their thighs, making a crotch curtain. Yet last evening at a fair sized party at our house, my wife crossed the room to provide my own close-your-damned-legs moment. She was more pleasant but the message was the same.

In my experience, women are no more polite or considerate than men. Yet nearly all try to preserve modesty when they wear a skirt or dress or kilt. The Sharon Stone Basic Instinct reveal when it occurs is intentional.

Men on the other hand (other leg?) do not grow up learning to keep their knees together when seated. For all but men with the least muscled thighs, keeping legs closed when seated allows no hanging room for what the Brits call naughty bits.

I enjoy wearing a kilt, for the variety and comfort. I only once was out in the bitter air and wind of winter in one though.

I suspect I’ll master the physical and social skill of the seated curtain. I also tend to travel with my kilt watcher to remind me.

Share

Donnie Dewlap

October 19th, 2016 No comments »

donjowlss-copyI’m old enough:

  • to be nearly be a peer of Donald Trump
  • to remember and have read Any Rand

She was and he is an awful lookist. The great irony there is that both were or are pathetically unattractive. She was an anorexic sort devoid of stereotypical feminine traits. He goes on and on about the virtues or shortcomings of specific women, while he is at best the Pillsbury Doughboy.

I recall Rand nailing one of her antagonists as “fat over the collar” (I think that was of Ellsworth Toohey in The Fountainhead.  She disdained and loathed body fat, so that glance was all the damning she required to make her view clear. The humor here is she did not have enough adipose tissue to have visible hips, breast or waist. She was physically an imitation woman.

Trump on the other hand, or head, is rife with flab. His neck and jowls and wattles hang over his clothes. I remember an article I wrote for American Management Association’s Management Review magazine when I was on staff, interviewing Mortimer Levitt, founder and head of The Custom Shirt Shop. He was a cartoon faced, scrawny guy, a male Rand as it were. He also hated visible body fat. His standard slide show included pix of President Kennedy showing flab bulging over too tight shirt collars.

The points here are how dare parody-of-women Rand disdain any body fat and how dare physically repulsive Trump judge women’s attractiveness? Let’s leave it as they were or are egocentric, asocial fools.

 

Share

Early voting, even in MA

October 2nd, 2016 No comments »

New, Improved, Zap, Pow! For the first time ever, MA including Boston will allow early voting. That’ll be Monday, Oct. 24 through Friday, Nov. 4.

Yes, yes, this is long overdue. At least MA is one of the states going the right way. Sixteen or more other states have been legislating nonstop to limit voting. On the other hand, I’d like to see at the least:

  • Prolonged early voting
  • Same-day registration
  • Automatic voter registration upon becoming 18
  • Choice of any ballot in a primary to those registered in a party or political designation (popular in MA

However, I’m sure the legislature and secretary of the commonwealth will  look carefully at turnout this and the next few elections.

The way it work in MA and Boston this first go will be designated locations on specified days and times. You can see Boston’s locations and times here.

The overview is each neighborhood gets one ore more four to eight hour periods. Boston’s city hall has early voting every few days. For example, my Hyde Park area gets a single period, Wednesday, Oct. 26 from 2 to 8 PM.

I haven’t gotten my training for the pending general election. As a precinct warden I’m want to understand some details. For one, the election polls open Tuesday, Nov. 8 at 7 AM.

We’ll get check-in and check-out books that list each registered voter in the precinct. I assume there will be a designation beside each early voter’s name that indicates they have already voted. We have a version already for absentee voters (AV). I assume there’ll be EV or the like. So the data-entry minions at city hall area likely to be clerking away from Friday afternoon on to make sure the books we get are up to date.

Note: This also appears at leftahead.com.

Share