Ok, Ok, I’m sorry.  I get it.  No crying this week!

As I’ve discussed before I can have, let’s say, an odd sense of humor.  Last November we had one of those rather drool off year elections.  Don’t get me wrong, I always vote, but on the odd numbered years you find yourself voting for people and/or jobs that you don’t know or even follow.  Who really knows what the County Prothonotary is or does?  And why does the Magistrate not have to know anything about the law to get elected.  Anyway, I found myself in front of the little electronic console trying to figure out who deserved my vote and why anyone even wanted half of these jobs.

I live in a township of just over 500 people so when we go to vote it’s as much a social event as an election.  The ladies behind the tables who check your ID and give you your little piece of paper are either related to you or you’ve known for fifty years.  At the first station I start off with “Hi mom, has it been busy?”.  The second station is, “Hey babe what time do you think you’ll be home?” and “Is there any food left over in the conference room for my dinner?”. The third station is “Hi Molly how are the kids?” (I went to school with her kids who, I guess, really aren’t kids anymore).  You get the picture.

So there I was doing my civic duty following the polling place rules and as I tapped away on the screen I eventually came to the position of “tax collector”.  For years the tax collector had been my next door neighbor Richard and after he passed away, one of the girls on the next street over took over, but years ago they farmed the whole process out to a contractor and since then, there had been no tax collector.  But, there it was on the screen.  No candidates, just a little button that said “write in”.  Who am I to ignore the only choice on the screen so I tapped the button and proceeded to type in “Leigh Hartman”, my youngest daughter.

What made it really funny in my mind wasn’t so much the typing a random name in, it was the concept that Leigh is one of the three least likely people I know who would be even remotely interested in dealing with any kind of math.  The other two also are living, or have lived, in my house.  My wife and daughters perfected the “Don’t worry, Dad will pay for it” plan and the higher math skills of balancing a checkbook has been something they have skillfully avoided for decades.  So, the thought of Leigh carefully managing the collection and tabulating of taxes made me, well, giggle.

Peg got home late that night and when I asked her how the voting went, she gave me the “look”.  “Why do you do that?”, she asked.  “Do what?”, I asked innocently.  “Do goofy things?” “What goofy things?”  “You know what I mean!”  And she huffed off to bed.  You’d think by now she would have figured me out!

I forgot all about election day until the week after Christmas.  I got home and there was Leigh in my living room with a thick manila envelope and she wasn’t happy.  “What did you do?” she pouted.  Tears welling up in her eyes.  “I don’t know what you’re talking about” I said, and I meant it.  “What’s in the envelope?”  And then it got really funny.  “I’m the tax collector and I have to fill out all of these campaign finance disclosure forms and I have to go to the courthouse to be sworn in and”, bursting into tears, “I don’t want to be the tax collector!”  I like to look at the bright side so I suggested, all the time holding back my desire to laugh uncontrollably, that she use the position as a resume builder.  She was looking for a new job and it would look really good to a potential employer to have that feather in her cap.  It didn’t help.  I assured her I would look into it and we’d figure it out.  That’s the “Don’t worry, Dad will fix it” plan which is an addendum to the “Don’t worry, Dad will pay for it” plan.

I called the township and, yes indeed, the position was still on the books and she had indeed won the election by a landslide by garnering 100% of the 1 vote cast for tax collector.  they told me that she was welcome to take the position though there was absolutely nothing to do.  She could attend the township meetings, or not.  It really didn’t matter.(If only we could get more politicians to do nothing we’d be much better off) Or, she could just throw away the papers and ignore it and it would just go away.  She chose the latter.

I couldn’t let it end there.  The next spring, I discovered there was a guy named Hartman running for Sheriff in Northeastern PA.  My Exec Tina made off with one of his yard signs and late one night I planted it proudly in Leigh’s front yard.

She wasn’t happy.