Editorial

The old coot grumbled and cursed while he sat in his favourite recliner watching the leaders’ debate on television.

“Promises, promises,” he heckled, sprinkling some more salt on his Granny Smith apple. “No good for nothin’. . . the lot of ‘em,” he spat, looking at his wife whose brow was crinkled with consternation over her Charles Wysocki puzzle.

“Damn politicians think they know everything,” he croaked, wagging a calloused finger at the screen.

“That’s it, Hilda, I ain’t votin’ this year,” he rasped, shoving another piece of apple into his gaping maw.

Hilda stole her eyes away from the puzzle. “You gotta vote, Horace, it’s the only power you have as a citizen these days,” she explained.

Horace sat up and nearly choked, hacking his response: “What, you believe in that nonsense . . . democratic rights and all?”

He cursed again and mumbled something else that Hilda couldn’t quite make out. “Horace, ‘member what grand-dad used say, God rest his soul. He said if ya don’t vote, ya got no right ta complain. And believe me, you’re doin’ a lotta that lately.”

Horace pressed the mute button and cast her a flabbergasted stare, not quite believing what he just heard.

“What the hail, Hilda. You done hurt my feelins’ talkin’ like that. I’m not complainin’, I’m just statin’ facts, is all.” 

Hilda put down her puzzle piece and gave Horace her own icy stare. 

“Horace Arnold McKinnon . . . you stubborn ol’ goat. You listen here. Many a young soldier died so you could bask in your freedom sittin’ there in your comfy recliner waggin’ fingers at everyone ‘cept yourself. People done a lotta hard work and shed a lotta blood and tears so you could live without tyranny and have the right ta vote, and now you’re sayin’ you ain’t castin’ a ballot?”

Horace was dumbfounded by his wife’s retort because she never done spoke to him that way before. 

“But Hilda, nothin’ is ever gonna change by votin’. Once they’se in power, they do what they want and collect their big fat pension while you and I are still scrapin’ the bottom of the barrel.”

Hilda stood up straighter than the National Guard, knocking one of her puzzle pieces to the floor.

“Don’t ya Hilda, me. Nothing’s gonna change as long as you’re angry at the world and refuse to listen. Dang it, Horace, you’re as entrenched as an outhouse rat.”

Horace shrank deeper into his recliner, watching the leaders in muted debate. “Well, heck, I don’t know who ta vote for, Hilda,” he finally conceded. 

Hilda shook her head and picked up the puzzle piece that had fallen. “Listen to what them politicians are spoutin’ about and vote with your conscience. Read about their campaigns and what they’se gonna do to make health care and housin’ better.”

“Ya mean, more expensive,” Horace chirped.

Another cold stare and Horace slinked away like a coyote. “Okay, okay, I’ll vote,” he surrendered

Lyonel Doherty, editor