A peek into the sequel of "A Journey of Choice."

HER FACE IN THE GLASS

by Pat Laster
[Available soon from Amazon in softback and e-book]

"The Election"

       Several years into World War II, St. Luke, Missouri, needed a school board. The former board had gone to war, along with several young men still in high school. 

       School Superintendent Louis H. seemed to like that—he could run the schools with no interference. But the parents grumbled. They wanted an election.
 
        Mr. H. and his wife-cum-school secretary decided on a plan. This was the note they sent home:

       “Due to parental insistence, a school board election will take place next Tuesday. PLEASE READ CAREFULLY. All interested applicants for the five positions will convene in the cafeteria at 1:30 pm. Those in attendance will be considered candidates and, if elected, be willing to serve for a year, beginning immediately. Please pass the word to any you know who might not have children in the school district. Applicants MUST reside in the district.”

By one-fifteen that day, the cafeteria teemed with people––old men still in their work clothes, harried women––some carrying one child and holding another’s hand––all interested in their school. I had come earlier from the newspaper to get a feel for the crowd. Several of the women wore faded and frayed shirts.

No one thought of name tags. But folks walked up to people, said their name and stuck out a hand. Superintendent H. had scheduled two minutes for each person to introduce him-or-herself and say whatever could be said in that short time.

            At 1:30, Mr. H. tapped on a thin glass. “Take a seat, please,” he said. The folding chairs––some wobbly, most all scarred by pocket knives or paper clips––were arranged in a circle, a formation that stopped at the head table.

          When the room was quiet, he said, “At the end of each two minutes, I will rap on a water glass––the pitch of which is exactly A-440, heh, heh.”  No reaction. Perhaps no one but me and the music-teacher-turned-librarian knew what perfect pitch was. If he had mentioned a rifle ping, or the sound of a hound baying, some might have understood.

        His rule was to stop at the clinking sound, even in mid-sentence, and hand the microphone to the next person, who would then stand and wait for the word, ‘Go.’

       “My wife will pass out ballots and pencils. After the speeches, write down three names, numbering them one, two, and three. The first name gets three points, the second, two points and the third, one point. The five people with the most points will be considered your new school board.”

        Mrs. H. stood and jabbed a sheaf of ballots to the persons on each side of her, one of whom was me. “Take one and pass the rest on.” She plopped back in her padded seat at the table. Her husband waited until all the ballots had reached the audience. 
 
       “Are you ready with the timer, Mrs. Secretary?”

        I saw him wink at her.

[Second installment next week.]
PL - c 2015