The village-town line runs right through our house. The Boy sleeps in the village, and we sleep in the town. Although only four years old, he knows the village has a little more cachet than the town. When he’s feeling tantrum-y, he’ll lord it over us a bit. We say “no ice cream,” and he says “peasants.”
Our mailbox and front door are in the village, though, and we get one of three local tax bills from the village, so the village elections seemed like a sure bet.
But no. A politically engaged woman who lives in our house — one who rightly dislikes driving on unplowed village roads, especially after having paid taxes presumably for the purpose of plowing — took her engagement to the voting booth last week, and was turned away. Apparently a front door, mailbox, living room and bedroom aren’t enough to earn you the right to vote in this particular village. The bulk of the lot is in town, and town is where we vote.
THIS was taxation without representation! Quick! To the lawyers! Fortunately, we have firebrand, rebel, metalhead lawyer friends! To arms, men! We called them.
They patiently explained that the Board of Elections had the right to pick a voting location for us, and that if they want to use the largest portion of the lot as the determiner of voting location they blah blah blah something about you can’t vote at your vacation home and something-about-Lemmy what-ever.
Of course, the boy voted at least twice, and keeps threatening to call the new mayor – his guy – whenever we make him clean up his part of the village.