God and Country
by PHIL JONES

It’s May 13, my fourth day in the field, counting noses for the Census Bureau, and I’m still a little nervous. Most people I have talked to have been wonderful, and I’ve had some very pleasant conversations with people I feel could be friends under different circumstances.  Still, it only takes one paranoid fool with a gun to end my time on earth, and that stays in the back of my mind. All of us temporary enumerators are aware of the risk.

When I arrive for the morning meeting near Kyle, there is a buzz going around the room about the woman lawyer in Leander, Carolyn Barnes, who took 5 shots at a 68-year-old female census worker, just yesterday. As I look around the room and gauge the mood, I am encouraged to see that everyone seems to be taking it in stride and with good humor. We will be undaunted by this. Mostly. Still, I know as I leave the office that today could be the day I get blown away.

The first stop is in the office of a model home, to verify the status of a nearby vacant house. The realtor is friendly and talkative. His wife is also working for the Census Bureau, so he is sympathetic  and helpful.

Next I find a young wife who just moved back from Baltimore, where she had met her husband. He is working in the background as we conduct the interview.  Then I go to a big house in the country, where nobody is home but the resident’s mother. She agrees to pinch hit for her son and fill out the census information. She wants to get it right, and even calls to make sure of her daughter-in-law’s birthday.

Next I am pleasantly surprised to receive a phone call. When I visit a house and nobody answers the door, I usually leave a notice with my phone number, as we are trained to do. I often jot an invitation to conduct the interview by phone. The previous night, I had noticed an “Obamanos” bumper sticker on a car at a house I visited, and I was disappointed they did not come to the door. But here they are, calling me! They have their questionnaire in front of them (forgot to send it in), so the interview goes smooth as glass. Maybe someday we will meet. In the meantime, I have another interview completed.

I am paid by the hour and by the distance I drive my car, but my productivity is evaluated on an interviews-per-hour basis. The standard is 1.08. So every interview completed is a proverbial feather in my cap.

I am having a problem with a vacant house. All I need is to find someone knowledgeable enough to confirm that it was vacant April 1. There is a sign on the door with the name of a property management company, but when I call, and mention the word “census”, they put me through to a voice message that says to submit my question in writing (What? The whole questionnaire?) and maybe they will get back to me at some point in the indefinite future. Maybe.

I don’t have time to wait around, so I go back to the very first house I ever visited, where the interview went so smoothly.  It’s just a few doors down from the vacant house, so there is a good chance they will know what I’m trying to find out. I go back at the same time of day, hoping to find the same helpful and friendly woman. She is not there, but her mother is. And glory be! She knows the mystery house was vacant on April 1. I reach to write this down, I discover I have left all my pencils in the car. I ask her to wait a second while I go and fetch one, but instead, she offers to bring some from the house. Even though they may not be the kind we need, I agree to this.  If she wants to be helpful, I am going to let her!

While she is inside looking for pencils, the dog comes to the door, and with the dog comes the woman’s grandson. I ask him the dog’s name.  His answer sounds like “Maui.” So I say, “Maui?” and he says, “No! Mahwi!” like I am the dumbest person in the world. (I am only the second or third dumbest, I will have you know.) “Have you ever seen the movie Mahwi and Me?”  he continues. I have to confess, I have not.

His grandmother rescues me, by returning with two pencils to choose from.   I take down her name and phone number, as I am required to do. (My boss wants to know I am not out there, just making stuff up.) I learn that she is a distant former relative of a famous American mystic. This leads to an interesting conversation about our mutual admiration for the mystic, the powers of the mind, the science of kinesiology (body electronics), and the scientific basis for old wives’ tales about how to predict the gender of an unborn child. Sweet.

Yes, today could be the day I get blown away. (Sounds like the start of a good country song!) But then, come to think of it, I could have said that about every day of my life up to now. So I’m not going to worry about it. I’m way past the halfway point of my life anyway, and this job, upholding the Constitution by simply meeting and talking to my neighbors, is as good a way to die as any.

God save the United States of America.

djones2032@austin.rr.com