The turn of the century came and went in a blaze of promise. I’m sure anyone who reaches my esteemed eighty-five years can claim to have seen much progress. There’s something special about living in two centuries, though. When a new century begins, mankind seems bent upon leaving a mark, and this century has not disappointed.
I am mostly sedentary these days, sitting by my window and watching the world pass by. Battles for women’s rights rage in my head, and I follow the meetings and debates through newspapers and letters. My passion beats strong, but my body weakens. Outside that window, the Santa Cruz fog rolls in to an ever more popular resort town. Mr. Swanton’s marvelous seaside casino burned downed in 1904 and was replaced with an entire boardwalk of amusements. There’s a bandstand where Marion hears the Lou Williams Santa Cruz Beach Band play. Visitors drive in their horse and buggies right onto the beach to visit the opulent Neptune Casino. My favorite part of the boardwalk is the Plunge, where they bring salt water in from Monterey Bay and heat it to a respectable swimming temperature. I manage to attend a Water Carnival held there, which is resplendent with swimming races and fire dives.
“Mama, are you ready to go?” Marion breaks my reverie as she does most days, dispersing my glorious memories with the intrusion of the present. Today, though, I don’t mind.
“I’ve been ready for decades,” I say. I smile, and I know she understands. Marion has been friend, confidant, and daughter these many years.
“Come on then, your adoring fans await.” She assists me to my feet, and I take her arm.
Outside, she helps me into the carriage and we drive downtown. Butterflies tickle my stomach, unexpected since I have fought the better part of my life for this day. Every November of my adult life I stewed and sputtered as men went to the polls. Today I will vote for the next president of the United States.
Marion and I avidly followed the campaign. President Taft never once mentioned women, so he will never receive my vote. Six states have women going to the polls today, and I predict Mr. Taft will win none of them. Former President Roosevelt formed a new party this year, the Progressive Party. He campaigned vigorously for the female vote and secured mine because of it. He did a fine job as president before and will again. The Democrat, Mr. Woodrow Wilson, campaigned strongly and cannot be counted out. At this point, all I can do is cast my vote.
“Do you think Mr. Roosevelt is strong enough to lead?” Marion asks me anxiously. “It’s only been three weeks since he was shot.”
“He’s a bull moose,” I reply, referring to the nickname of the Progressive Party. Marion laughs.
“Well, it is amazing that the bullet was slowed by his glasses case and the text of his speech. If it were a shorter speech that bullet may have killed him!”
We fall silent as the import of what we are about to do sobers us. I swell with pride to share this moment with her. The jangle of harness and clop of hooves lull me into a reverie where I imagine I can feel the other women of my family.
My other daughter, Ellie, lives in San Francisco. She vows she will never vote, a petulant rebellion against me. Florence, my granddaughter, is old enough to accompany her mother to the polls. If Ellie doesn’t vote, no doubt Florence won’t either. Florence is artistic, but in an odd way. She never seems happy, always hiding behind her glasses.
My daughter-in-law, Nina, will vote with Henry in Marin County. My granddaughter Eva sends pictures of Tomales Bay and Inverness. She, too, will vote for Mr. Roosevelt as she told me in her letters. I hope she takes a picture of her mother voting!
Nina’s family is as divided as mine. Her sister Emily, with her companion Lillian, will vote in San Francisco. Miss Palmer will ensure it! Nina’s older sister, Edith, lives apart from the family in Pacific Grove. I am confident she, too, will cast a vote. That insipid stepmother of theirs, however, probably is not even aware an election is taking place.
Mrs. Fannie Williams remains the epitome of all I despise. She clings to her youngest son, Paul, as if without him she will just perish from the Earth. She must have more strength than that. After all, she married a widowed man, uprooted him from the gold fields and moved them all to San Jose. She raised his four children and gave him two more, kept his house and entertained for him as he became quite prominent. These are not tasks for a simpering woman, yet she simpers. I have no patience for her. Just as well she probably won’t vote, since she would probably throw away her vote on Taft.
We arrive at the courthouse at midmorning. Both men and women step back to watch as they recognize our carriage. I sit for a moment and contemplate the courthouse. Forty years ago I tried to vote here and Captain Brown turned me away. Forty years ago I sued for my right to vote and the men laughed at me. Now my vote will help turn the tide of the nation and elect a new president.
“It’s time, Mama.” Marion smiles proudly. A gray tendril escapes from her upswept hair, and I realize with a shock that she is now fifty-six years old. When I was her age, I’d lost two husbands and had three children on the brink of adulthood. Yet here she stands, with an aging mother instead of a brood of children.
“I am ready,” I say in the strongest voice I can manage.
She helps me from the carriage. I put out my cane with one hand, and tuck the other in the crook of Marion’s arm. Slowly we make our way to the registrar’s desk. Of course a young man replaced Captain Brown. It used to be I knew everyone in Santa Cruz, but this one is a stranger.
“Ellen Rand Perkins VanValkenburgh,” I say loudly. My declaration now is every bit as important as the signing of the Declaration of Independence, and I want my voice to be the John Hancock signature of this election.
“Welcome,” the clerk says, smiling. He shakes my hand and gives me the ballot.
With only my cane, I move toward the voting booth. Behind me, I hear Marion give the clerk her name. Tucking the ballot into my cane hand, I struggle a bit with the flimsy door of the small booth. Then I am inside and it clatters shut behind me. I lean against the shelf where I place my ballot and hang my cane on the edge. With a shaking hand, I smooth the official ballot. This moment is no longer for all the women who come after me. It’s no longer a Historical Moment. This moment is the culmination of my life’s ambition, of more than forty years of struggle. At this very instant, I am overcome with emotion. I am proud, and I am elated.
As I mark my ballot, I imagine women all across the state doing the same.
Taking one more minute to savor the experience, I gather my very first marked ballot and return to the registrar’s desk to place it in the locked box. I vote, and the world changes.
To most of the people gathered here, I am just one more old woman voting for the first time. I am not the first woman to vote in the county, nor will I be the last. There is no political milestone here, only a personal one. Marion senses some of this, and insists on taking me out to lunch to celebrate.
In the next days, it becomes clear that President Taft will not be reelected. His Republican slate did not even make the ballot in California, although I’m sure some people wrote in his name. In our state, former president Mr. Roosevelt wins by a narrow margin, and I am jubilant. In the final tally, though, Mr. Woodrow Wilson wins the presidency. It hardly matters. I voted in a major election, and I will do so again.
The first letter to arrive after the election is from Eva.
Dear Grandma Van,
I voted! Mama and I were the very first women to vote in our precinct. We walked right up there with Papa and cast our votes like we’d been doing it all along. Carl wanted to vote, too, but he is only ten. He was quite distraught until Papa promised him a treat on the way home. He is such a child! I thought about you as I put my ballot in the box, and knew you would be as proud of me as I am of you.
Love,
Eva
I write back and assure her she is the jewel of my heart, and her future is bright. A day or so later, I am astonished to receive a letter from Emily Williams. I have not heard from her in ages.
Dear Mrs. VanValkenburgh,
As did many women in our fair state, I voted today. There were long lines of women at our precinct in San Francisco, and a very festive air. Lil and I blended into the crowd and marked our ballots. It is such a turning point for our country. I hope other states follow suit soon. I know I have not been as tireless an advocate for suffrage as you have, but I wanted to let you know that I gladly participated in my new right. Thank you for all you have done over the years to further women’s causes.
Sincerely,
Emily Williams
“She must think I am the grand dame of suffrage,” I tell Marion.
“Oh, Mama, for each letter like this you receive, there are ten others who feel the same but never write.” She pats my hand and fetches my tea.
When you are young, you hop on life’s train and take off, with no destination in mind. Have you ever seen a child on a train? They fasten themselves to the window and marvel over the speed of the train and the black smoke as the locomotive works a grade. They live in the moment. A child has no control over who her parents are or how she is raised any more than she can control the destination of that train.
In the middle years, idealism charts a path and a young woman, or man I suppose, charges forth to drive the train. For me, it was about achieving the vote. Emily Williams wanted to be able to pursue her chosen career. For Ellie and Nina, it has always been about raising a strong family. The middle years are all about taking charge and steaming into the future with a full tender of coal. We’ve all done that admirably.
In old age, however, life wins again. It rushes by like a steam locomotive and pushes the old souls aside to sit in the station and watch, the thrill now gone. I have done many things I’m proud of, and I’ve loved many people who have loved me, too. In the grandest scheme, isn’t that the most beautiful epitaph?
I’m a tough old girl, though. I don’t curl up and die just because I’m no longer in charge. I bask in the reverence my family showers on me. I will be here to mentor my children and my grandchildren for a while yet. It’s my turn to give sage advice and watch youth ignore it. I laugh with them and cry with them, knowing they will find their own way when all is said and done.
Marion returns with the tea and a plate of almond cookies, my favorite. The almond tree in the yard is old now, too. It still showers us with magnificent pale blossoms each spring, but the birds get most of the almonds before we can pick them. Marion must have bought these, a sacrilege in her youth. I smile, remembering.
She pats my hand. “Mama, I so enjoy having tea with you by this window. It’s like the entire world is laid out before us.”
“Yes, my dear, it is.” I bite into my almond cookie and marvel in the flavors of the present.
Ellen VanValkenburgh, on the right, with her daughter Marion. Marion is holding her sister Ellie’s granddaughter, also Marion.