Happy Birthday To A Man Who Loved To Vote

My father may or may not have been born on this date a hundred years ago.  He died forty-two years ago at the age of fifty-eight and - were he still alive - would finally be old enough to be dead.  I say this is perhaps his birth date because no one actually remembered the exact day of his birth.  The clearest memory is that there was a bad storm on the day of his birth and counting days back to the storm they (his parents, perhaps, or perhaps his older sister) arrived at this date -- November 6.  It's fitting that this date is election day.  My father believed in the obligation of voting.  For years our little ranch house was the polling place to which a staggering variety of mountain/desert folk came to cast their ballots with pens dipped in ink.  It is also fitting that today is his chosen birthday because his granddaughter is in the middle of a big East Coast storm and looking for a place to vote.
Happy birthday, Ira.  Stay dry, Jesse.