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The story frames Election Day not merely as a political event but as a recurring family ritual—one that binds generations together and imbues civic duty with the warmth of tradition. The convergence of shared food, cultural heritage, and symbolic gestures transforms the act of voting into a communal celebration, suggesting that democracy’s endurance depends as much on the living room as on the polling place.

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A Family Tradition on Election Day

By Harry Arabian

The doorbell rang just as I was flipping a page of the Armenian Mirror-Spectator while seated comfortably in the living room. My father was in his usual spot, eyes fixed on the local Boston news, volume low but steady. The afternoon sun streamed through our front windows, casting warm lines across the rug. In our quiet, safe neighborhood, we usually kept the front door ajar during the day—our lives reflecting the message stitched into the welcome mat: “Come in, we’re home.”

It was no surprise that my aunt and her husband were at the door. They knew about our open-door policy, so the chime was likely not theirs. As it turned out, their grandson had taken it upon himself to press the button, perhaps out of excitement. My aunt gently scolded him, then smiled and reminded him, “You are always welcome in this house.”

I rose to greet them—my aunt, her husband, their daughter, her son-in-law, and, of course, the lively ten-year-old who seemed to have an endless supply of energy. That’s when I noticed something: the “I Voted” stickers proudly displayed on the left side of each adult’s shirt.

“Hey, we voted too,” I said, nodding toward the TV, where election results scrolled across the screen. “We’ve been watching the local coverage all day.”

My aunt beamed. “I brought him with me to the voting booth,” she said, motioning to her grandson. “It’s a family tradition. Do you remember when I took you to see the voting booth a few years ago?”

“I do remember,” I said, chuckling. “But I don’t recall getting an ‘I Voted’ sticker.”

She grinned mischievously. “That’s because you weren’t voting age—just like my grandson. He got a preview, not a sticker.”

We all laughed, and soon everyone had settled into the living room, jackets folded over chair backs, stories beginning to stir in the air. My mom appeared from the kitchen with a large glass bowl of fruit—apples, pears, and late-season grapes—a fall bounty, set carefully on the coffee table.

“Come, eat,” she said, waving a hand toward the center of the room. “Now that the voting is done, let’s enjoy the season.”

My father stood, a familiar sparkle in his eye, holding up a bottle of Ararat Brandy and a cluster of small shot glasses.

“To freedom,” he said, pouring slowly. “To family. And to a warm Election Day shared with those we love.”

Glasses clinked gently; the child looked on with wide eyes; and, for a moment, everything paused—the kind of moment that stays with you, framed by laughter, tradition, and the quiet pride of participating in something larger than ourselves.