Memories of Election Day – Dr. Ed Iannuccili

Memories of Election Day – Dr. Ed Iannuccili

“Well, for one thing, it was a day out of school in the middle of the week,” replied Diane when I asked her what she remembered of election days of yore.

Loudspeakers atop cars, trucks and vans meandering up and down the streets squealed the praises of their candidates. “Get out and vote. And vote for . . .” Kinda like The Kingston Trio singing, “Fight the fare increase, vote for (was it George O’Brien?). Get poor Charlie off the MTA!”

The school holiday started simply enough with a late rise, a gathering of friends and a trek through the neighborhood for games of touch football; easy enough to gather three or four teams to play a round robin. As the day progressed and the cool dusk crept in, we started our rounds to the polls.

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It was an unusual night . . . mid-week crowds, lights, people out and about talking, poking, and coaxing, a smiling cop flipping his Billy club like a magician . . . a whirlpool of electrifying sounds and sights.

We went to two polling sites, one a nearby school and the other, the more important one for us, the Ryan Post, a three-story venerable, baked-brick building at the corner of Atwells and Academy Avenues in Providence, smack in the middle of our neighborhood and across from my Uncle Carlo’s grocery store. The vibrating hums of traffic were interrupted by the hurrying voters crossing the street.

The Post was a handsome building named for a war veteran. Built in 1930’s, it was fronted by a large double door that led to an open hall and an oiled wooden floor, brightened in daytime by the sunlight flowing through large, maybe Palladian, windows.  It was a gathering place where we attended school dances or enjoyed a May Day breakfast. It was where Dad brought me to hear Senator John O. Pastore’s captivating talk about “Atoms for Peace.”

I went in. There were the smells of aged wood, old paper, ink and the whiff of coffee that flowed from a small kitchen tucked in the rear. Radiant lights mingled with dancing shadows from the streetlights and the headlamps of passing cars. People entered a booth and, tackling a lever, whooshed a curtain to hide everything but their lower legs and shoes. I heard clicking. “You can’t stay here, Son.” I didn’t care. I was more intent on collecting discarded campaign buttons and signs; today, sadly, like my comic books, long discarded.

It was a fun evening . . . a school night when we stayed out late because our parents lingered to talk. Buttons rattled on the floor as I emptied my pockets that night in my bedroom. Mom ---What’s that racket? --- Nothing.

Though I never expected the past to remain unchanged, neither did I expect my emotion during a recent drive through the old neighborhood and by The Post. I realized that so much was now gone. But not The Post.

Though I lost the buttons and no longer hear speakers, I still have the memories.

Dr. Ed Iannuccilli is the author of three popular memoirs, “Growing up Italian; Grandfather’s Fig Tree and Other Stories”, “What Ever Happened to Sunday Dinner” and “My Story Continues: From Neighborhood to Junior High.”  Learn more here.