I love going door to door. I will admit, though, there are moments when driving onto an unknown person’s property….especially in some of the deeply rural areas of the 147th—-that I hesitate slightly, wondering if approaching is wise. It happened to me last night as I finished up doors in Concord.
Twilight was approaching, making it difficult to see address numbers on mailboxes. As I slowed time and again to get a better look at the roadside house numbers, I struggled to find the final address on my list. Finally, partially hidden among summer’s overgrowth I gleaned a mailbox. Sure enough, it was the place. Turning into the driveway I was immediately met with a gravel filled, winding road and the spectre of an old wooden building ahead in the distance.
I slowed my car to a crawl, trying to more fully inspect what I assumed was the owner’s residence. It was unpainted, weathered and highlighted with a few old windows of sizes that definitely did not allow for much daylight. In my mind I could hear my daughter’s voice urging me to be cautious….followed by my conscience suggesting that I turn around. Yet something in my Irish mindset prompted me to go forward, chided me to not judge a book by its cover…..or a constituent by their house….and further reminded me that every person deserves the right to be informed and vote.
So I continued, and as I reached the aging building I saw a sign that identified it as the office for a gravel business. With the roadway beckoning me to drive further, I passed the office and came to another clearing where a house appeared. The building was constructed of the same weathered materials,but this one was more welcoming, highlighted by lovely windows and a colorful purple tin roof.
Within minutes I was fully engaged in political conversation with the owner of the property….an amiable Irishman who proudly told me that he was the son of a former judge. This gentleman explained how his father spent many a night doing just what I was doing…going door to door to meet his constituents. I then told him of my retitecence in approaching some rural driveways with unknown consequences awaiting me. We laughed and he said he understood, as his father often said the same.
Finally finishing our chat, we shook hands and I walked away. But before reaching my car, I heard this man call out in words that sounded much like my own Irish family’s,
“Don’t you give up. You hear me?”
Slightly startled, I turned around to see him smiling and pointing at me, “Don’t you give up going down those driveways.”
Some days….. risk delivers a great reward.