Laurie Hekman

I love voting.There is no greater feeling in the world than going to the voting booth, scribbling in the circles with a perfectly proportioned dark mark, and then feeding the machine to cast my vote that is as important as Mayor Joe’s vote in front of me and Grandma Liberal’s vote behind me.And I’m not the only one who feels that way. Janet Baker, 3875 14 Mile Rd., put a large, yellow sticky note on the dashboard of her car with the word “Vote” on it to remind her to get out and vote at the primary.“If I don’t vote,” she said, “[I] really don’t have any right to complain.”Baker said that if she doesn’t agree with decisions being made within her Sparta Township community, how can she have any grounds to say her opinion if she hasn’t taken the first step to vote?“Even if it doesn’t turn out the way I hoped it to, at least I made an effort,” she said.But despite these truths, Michigan’s primary election turnout rate sits at a sad 20 percent.Sue Bitely, Sparta Township Clerk, helped to run the primary elections on August 5. She said that many people don’t bother to get out to the local elections, especially, because voters don’t think that these elections matter.“They don’t realize that they’re picking their candidate,” she said, referencing the November elections.And in some cases, more than a few Republican or Democratic representatives for the election in the fall are chosen during the August primaries.Supervisors, treasurers and even the Kent County sheriff were chosen this year.And yet people still choose not to vote because they feel as though their measly vote out of thousands of voters doesn’t matter.“It won’t change anything anyway,” they say.

It’s my two-month anniversary as a full-time, local reporter, and I am celebrating by sitting down with myself and writing a column.On second thought, some cake and ice cream sounds good…I didn’t even notice when the exact two-month date passed, but as I drove the roads intersecting maturing apple trees today, I couldn’t help but realize that I was seeing the area with new eyes.In all honesty, when I started reporting with this community paper, I was a little leery of the small town, local areas I cover, and I could sense that at times some of those in my territory were distrustful of me.“Who are these people? And, what are they all about?” I said to myself.“Who is this girl and what is she all about?” those I interviewed said either verbally or nonverbally.But, since that shaky beginning, I feel as though I am now starting to hear the heartbeat of Small Town AmericaThey are about each other. They are fiercely proud of their small townships and villages, and would rather not divulge any negative things about their community or the people in it to an “outsider” such as me.“Now, the last reporter and I had a great relationship,” one interviewee said to me after I asked a question. “I just want to know why you’re asking this.”In those early days, when I received responses like this, I tried my best to hide my frustration with a forced laugh, inwardly wishing they would know that I was trying my hardest to be “about them,” as well.But I have noticed that in recent weeks, those with whom I speak are warming up to me. I find myself having more genuine fun, and not feeling so stressed as I increase the amount of time spent in my territory.

A fellow journalist, Jan Holst, is a part of the baby-boomer generation. She falls in the same generational category as my parents and many people whom I interview on a daily basis.Jan said this week that she believes she and I can connect so well because of similarities in our generations. After some thought and study, I agree with her perspective.Though Jan and others I work with are older than me, I’m not intimidated by these men and women in their fifties and sixties. I see Jan as a friend and a co-worker who can guide me.It may be because I have come to the point in life where I can look my parents in the eye and ever-so-respectfully disagree with them, but I think that there is a deeper truth to some overarching similarities between myself and the generation who calls themselves the Baby Boomers.Imperfectly defined, the Baby Boomer generation is those born between 1946 and 1964. Generation X-ers are those born between 1965 and 1977, and Generation Y, my generation, is those born between 1978 and 1987.My age may be closer to those in Generation X, but because of current events, the tone of my generation more closely resembles that of the Boomers.They were born into a world that was recovering from the ravages of WWII. They soon entered another war, Vietnam, which was looked at negatively by the majority of the United States. This is not unlike the war in Iraq today.Bonnie Robinson, Sparta Township clerk and born in 1948, said she remembers her brother going off to Vietnam. “He never wanted to talk about it when he came home,” she said. “And he still never talks about it.”She said it was an unpopular war. “A lot of people didn’t support it after a while. I can remember on TV all those anti-war protests,” Robinson said. “It is kind of like Iraq now.”

Who really likes to give blood?You sign up to have somebody stab a needle in you, steal your life-blood and then guide you dazedly to the cookie table so you can scarf them down before you pass out.And sometimes, you do pass out. One of my friends said that the nurse accidentally hit an artery, and the bag filled up in two seconds. He was out faster than you could say “red blood cell.”It doesn’t exactly sound like my idea of fun.This is probably why I’ve spent the last six years I’ve been eligible to give blood, avoiding every donation possible.“Oh, yeah, I have, uh, class then, and I can’t miss,” I said in high school.“Ooh, I wish I could, but I just got back from Africa,” I said in college, “Rats.”But I was out of excuses and the pressure was on. A funny thing happens when you write articles about communities doing blood donation such as at Casnovia Reformed Church. Suddenly, people are asking you to be there to give blood.“I’m going to have to check my calendar,” I said, laughing it off. Somewhere, deep down, I knew that I would end up donating.I arrived that fateful Monday afternoon scanning my brain for reasons why I couldn’t do it.I was in Africa last summer, I had a strange hack-cough and I’m sure I’m hypoglycemic. I started rattling off a couple of these concerns to the nurses and sent them running to their books to see if South Africa was okay, and if my hack-cough would interfere.“Do you feel an overall sense of health?” asked one doctor.“Yes,” I said, reluctantly.“You said you were in Cape Town?” asked another nurse.“Yes,” I said, hopefully.“Oh, well, that’s fine, then,” she said.Shoot.