Woodsterman: October 2025

The alarm clock screamed at 5 AM, a sound that made Woodsterman snap awake with the grim determination of a general on D-Day. Today wasn’t just voting day—it was his day. As the newly appointed local precinct captain for poll watchers, the entire democratic integrity of Flat Creek’s Ward 3 rested squarely on his broad, flannel-clad shoulders.

His wife, Marge, handed him a thermos of coffee strong enough to dissolve a spoon. “Remember, Woodsterman, you’re in charge. Leadership. Delegate. And for heaven’s sake, don’t let anyone lick the voting equipment this time.”

An hour later, Woodsterman stood like a sentinel in the Flat Creek Elementary gymnasium, a clipboard clutched in his hand and a gleaming “Precinct Captain” badge pinned to his chest. Arrayed before him were his troops: Brenda, a veteran of thirty elections who viewed every new voter as a potential saboteur; Kevin, a nervous high school senior on his first civic duty; and Sheila, a woman who brought her own hand sanitizer and a deep suspicion of pencil sharpeners.

“Alright team,” Woodsterman began, his voice a low rumble. “Our mission is simple. Observe. Report. Maintain order. Any questions?”

Kevin raised a tentative hand. “What if someone’s pen explodes?”

“We have contingency ballots,” Woodsterman stated confidently, though he had no idea if this was true.

The doors opened promptly at 7 AM. The first citizen through them was Agnes Finch, a woman whose age was a matter of local legend. She marched straight to the check-in table, produced an ID from a purse that looked like it contained artifacts from the Cold War, and issued her traditional demand.

“Kevin, fetch me the magnifying glass ballot. The one with the brass hinges.”

Kevin looked helplessly at Woodsterman. Woodsterman, remembering his leadership role, gave a firm, captain-like nod. “Follow protocol, Kevin.”

Agnes received the ancient, yellowed cardboard contraption, peered through the cloudy lens with her giant magnified eye, and promptly declared, “This is a disgrace. It’s filthier than a politician’s promise.” Before anyone could move, she licked her thumb and polished the glass with a horrifying squelching sound. Sheila gasped and applied sanitizer to her own hands from a distance.

“Observation log,” Woodsterman muttered to his clipboard, writing neatly. “0705 hours. Voter Finch applied… organic cleaning solution to precinct property.”

The Miller twins, Barry and Larry, arrived next, a synchronized spectacle in matching plaid. They approached the table as a single unit. “We’re here to cast our shared ballot,” Barry announced.

“We have a system,” Larry clarified.

Woodsterman stepped forward. “Gentlemen. The law requires individual, private votes.”

The twins looked crestfallen. They huddled, whispering. “The Hat System is compromised,” one whispered urgently.

“Fall back to Plan B. The Winking Protocol,” the other replied.

Woodsterman watched, fascinated, as the first twin entered the booth. He emerged exactly ninety seconds later, gave a subtle, almost imperceptible wink with his left eye, and nodded. The second twin entered. Woodsterman noted on his clipboard: “0718 hours. Voters Miller employed non-verbal coordinated voting strategy. Democracy appears balanced.”

Mid-morning brought the precinct’s greatest test: Phil, the Full-Time Beekeeper. He arrived in his full regalia, a puff of white fabric and wire mesh.

“I need to verify your identity, Phil,” Brenda said, her voice weary.

“My identity is my business! This suit is a necessary defense against the swarm of political rhetoric!” Phil’s voice buzzed from behind the veil.

A standoff ensued. Woodsterman knew this was a leadership moment. He approached calmly. “Phil. We appreciate your caution. We’ll perform a veiled verification. Brenda will look under the hood, confirm it’s you, and you can vote in peace.”

A compromise was reached. Phil lifted his veil just enough for a quick peek. Brenda nodded. “It’s him.” Phil voted, his thick gloves making the stylus look like a toothpick in a catcher’s mitt.

The true crisis struck just before lunch. Mr. Henderson—no relation—spent nearly half an hour in the voting booth, scratching away with intense concentration. When he finally emerged, he beamed with pride. Later, while observing the ballot box, Woodsterman happened to see the top of Mr. Henderson’s ballot. In the section for County Commissioner, he had written in sprawling letters: “A good, sturdy wheelbarrow. It carries a load without complaint and doesn’t talk back.”

Woodsterman made a note. “1145 hours. Voter Henderson nominates inanimate agricultural implements for public office. Platform: reliability and silence.”

The afternoon was a parade of peculiarities. A woman tried to pay her water bill at the check-in table, convinced it was all part of the same municipal process. A man argued that his personalized license plate “GR8VOTR” should count as two forms of ID. Then came the high school civics class, a busload of teenagers radiating boredom. One student, Timmy, registered on the spot because it was his eighteenth birthday.

“Who are you voting for?” his friend asked loudly.

Timmy shrugged. “The lady with the coolest sounding name. Definitely not the guy who sounds like my uncle who talks about his gout.”

Woodsterman winced and wrote: “1420 hours. Voter turnout success with the youth demographic. Decision-making criteria… unorthodox.”

As dusk fell, the pace slowed. Then, at 7:58 PM, a frantic squealing noise announced the arrival of the final voter. It was Darlene, with her emotional support ferret, Reginald, straining on a sparkly leash.

“We made it!” Darlene panted.

In a blur of fur and poor judgment, Reginald leaped from her shoulder, dove into the voting booth, and became entangled in the privacy curtain, his squeaks now sounding like protests against the two-party system. A chaotic three-minute extraction followed, culminating in Reginald escaping with an “I Voted” sticker stuck triumphantly to his head.

Polls closed. The team was exhausted. Ballots were counted; machines were shut down. Sheila was on her third bottle of sanitizer.

Brenda looked at Woodsterman. “Well, Captain? Any major threats to democracy today?”

Woodsterman looked down at his clipboard, filled with notes about winking twins, a political wheelbarrow, and a ferret’s last-minute candidacy. He thought about the beekeeper, the magnifying glass, and the kid who voted for a cool name.

He smiled for the first time all day. “No, Brenda. No threats. Just democracy. In all its messy, beautiful, and completely ridiculous glory.” He unpinned his badge. It had been a perfect day.

Thanks Skip