At twilight in Kate and Steve’s back yard, slapping mosquitoes and drinking Blue Moon, I was certain of one thing: I was not in New Hampshire or Iowa. On that particular Saturday night, I was at a party in the Michigan college town where I grew up, and to which I had returned to live my (serious) adult life.

In the furthest reaches of the yard was a trampoline, where children hurled themselves into the air, screaming, losing shoes, and periodically returning to the circle of adults to reassure themselves that we had not vanished into the night. Around the fire pit, we were discussing what had happened to our Democratic primary. The fact that we had lost it was clear and the prospect of regaining some delegates in the next few days seemed to be a sure thing, but it wasn’t clear what the cost would be to Michigan Democrats or whether we had actually gained anything other than a divided party and a feeling of loss and futility.

Steve emerged from the house bearing a plate of cheese, begging us to eat some. An attorney, Steve is an employee of the State. Catching our topic, he absently handed the cheese platter to his wife, and gracefully sank cross-legged on the grass. “They broke the rules,” he said with finality. “They knew that if they moved the primary our delegates wouldn’t be seated, and they did it anyway.”

“For good reasons, though,” asserted Rick, a systems analyst. “We’re held hostage by New Hampshire and Iowa for no real reason, and if this had been handled right, we could have come out with a better system for primaries – it was a good idea, but they botched it, it just spiraled out of control and we got screwed.” Steve, eating the forbidden cheese, raised a finger.

“We weren’t cheated,” he said around a bit of Camembert, “no one is being disenfranchised, here. It’s a political party’s right to decide what they’re going to do. Michigan broke the rules, and the DNC is following them. Besides,” he added taking a small chunk of Edam, “we all know who is behind this sudden rush to get delegates seated – it’s Mrs. Clinton, and it’s complete crap for her to claim sudden concern about our unheard voices.”

“So,” I inquired, “not a Hilary fan?” Steve snorted. “No, Obama from the beginning. I just skipped the primary. It was pointless. You?” he asked, looking at Rick.

“Obama,” he said, “and it’s looking good in that way, I guess, but I still think we got spanked by our own party. Maybe they could spend less time thinking about what they already screwed up and more on what they can do to fix this thing going forward.” My husband, the Republican, approached me, Red Stripe in hand.

“What’s going on over here?” he asked, sitting at my feet. My beloved was, as he often is, the only Republican in the crowd. I shot a warning look at the relaxed Dems enjoying the fire, unaware that an agent provocateur had entered their cozy circle.

“Our primary,” answered Grace. Sitting cross-legged on a lawn chair she appeared almost child-like and innocuous, but she is, in fact, a fierce Democrat and I knew that she had chosen not to vote at all in the primary rather than leave an “undecided” vote up for grabs.

“That we screwed it up, and now they want to go back and fix it because Hilary’s pushing,” added Alice. “But it wasn’t your primary, right?” she added, smiling at my husband.

“Nope,” he responded, “I’m just sitting back and watching you tear yourselves to pieces.” I checked nervously for raised fists; seeing none, I took a long pull on my beer. “Here’s the beauty part,” he went on, “Democrats are always whining about including the disenfranchised, and how Republicans trample their rights. So here we have the Michigan Democratic Party and the DNC screwing over their own voters, and you all get ‘disenfranchised.’” He smiled, beatifically. “And for what? Because the ‘leaders’ of the Michigan party were jealous of Iowa and New Hampshire. Worth it?”

My father, a Democrat for 72 years, cleared his throat. “The primary was a botched business,” he began. His age, coupled with his long history as a lecturing professor had its usual affect, calming the undercurrent of noise around him as if he had sucked it from the air. “Rick is right that something needs to change, and our senators and state party chairmen gambled by breaking the rules to see if they could make it happen. It’s ridiculous to rely on votes from two small, rural, very white states that don’t represent the country, and I prefer Carl Levin’s notion of rotating which state starts the primaries.”

“I agree with you there,” my husband said, “but the solution to this thing is a sham. It still doesn’t reflect the will of Democratic voters in this state, and if your super delegates choose Clinton because they think she’s your best chance, I’m telling you, you’re going to watch your party kill itself, and lose this election.”

“You’re right,” my father said quietly, “I think it’s the best they can do at this point to try to fix what went wrong, but I’m sure the Clinton people aren’t happy about it and if she pushes the issue and refuses to bow out, it’ll hurt us.”

“So where from here?” I asked, rising to pitch my empty bottle and round up the family to head home. “It looks like they’ve worked out a deal, and we’ll have at least some say in the election. Better than nothing?” My mother held out a hand for me to help her from the depths of her chair.

“It’s still not right,” she said, “we’ve all got a constitutional right to vote, and I’m not aware that it’s forfeited because someone is naughty.” A Wellesley grad, my mother supported Hillary from the start, although she had recently conceded party unity was the most important thing as we looked to November, and that it wasn’t about whether it was “her” candidate that mattered, but getting a Democrat in the White House.

Leaving the warmth of the fire, and of our friends, I guided my mother over the dark, uneven yard as my son hollered goodbyes. She was right, my mother. In some ways, we were all right. Our representatives wanted change for valid reasons and they took chances that had led to confusion and dispute, but we could pull together in November. Taking a last look back at the good-hearted, intelligent people sitting around the fire, I was pretty sure we would.

Ann Graham Nichols cooks and writes the Forest Street Kitchen blog in East Lansing, Michigan where she lives in a 1912 house with her husband, her son and an improbable number of animals.

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