Rest in polls: Houston voters cast their ballots at funeral homes

By the time the polls opened on Election Day, the poll workers at Winford Funerals had exhausted nearly all the jokes.

Death of a political career. A pretty dead line. Mark Deaton, the election judge, had gone through all the tasteless cremation jokes he could think of during Monday night’s set up. (There are not, he acknowledged, tasteful cremation jokes).

Of Harris County’s 800-plus polling places, three are funeral homes. The county has used funeral homes as polling places in past elections — any business, said a representative from the Harris County Clerk’s office, can apply— but itwas the first time for Winford Funerals, a white-brick complex in Braeburn with a sign in both English and Vietnamese.

Sarah Kendrick, 28, arrived to cast her ballot around 7:45 a.m. at Winford, walking into the chapel through a part of the parking lot blocked off by bright-orange traffic cones that said FUNERAL. She was the only person in line.

“My friend suggested it,” she said to Deaton. “We thought like, ‘Well, it’d be a quiet place.’”

As soon as she said it, she realized what she’d implied. She and Deaton both started laughing. She was voting against President Donald Trump more than anything else. She appreciated the irony.

Voters who chose funeral homes to cast their ballot for a divisive election during a global pandemic mostly just showed up for the convenience: They lived close and thought the lines might be shorter.

At Winford, they used the front of the crematorium building. The actual crematorium itself was closed off by curtains, softly backlit with orange, blue and purple lights. Tonio Loh, president of Winford, said that the county initially wanted to use the main building, but he suggested the side one. He was not sure people wanted to vote in a funeral home. The crematorium, he promised, would be out of commission that day (at least, in a literal sense).

In the morning, the traffic at Winford was – there was no other way to say it – dead. Poll workers traded food recommendations (dim sum), travel insights and cremation stories. Someone’s mother had demanded her ashes be thrown into the sea with the ashes of her two dogs. Another person had heard of a band that agreed to throw someone’s ashes out at their concerts. Someone knew someonewho had been cremated at Winford, just behind the curtain.

As voters trickled in, another group gathered in the main building at Winford. A woman had died on Sunday. Her photo on a TV monitor in the vestibule showed her wrapped in a red coat and scarf, peering up through her glasses. It had begun with a pain in her leg, said Hung Le, who works at the family-owned home. She had needed surgery. She’d called her sister, a nail technician, just before. The next call her sister got was from the doctor notifying her of the death.

Her viewing had begun at 9 a.m. on Election Day. On Wednesday, shewould be cremated in the building used the day before to vote.

Lee Nguyen, a 67-year-old election judge with a stars-and-stripes face mask under his face shield, adjusted the signs on the front of the building that kept getting blown off by the winds. He had worked at Harris County polls for decades. His father had been imprisoned in Vietnam for three years for casting a ballot against the majority party.

He peered out the crematorium-chapel door to the main building. “You could do the funeral, come in here to vote,” he quipped.

Lois Keller-Nelson, managing partner at Cypress Fairbanks Funeral Home — another funeral parlor used as a polling place — hoped someone might do that in reverse. Their building looks small from the road — and besides, people careen down it too fast to really see the building. But it extends farther back than the passing motorists can see. Voters were in the library, usually used for families to gather to watch slideshows and sign a guest book before they go into the chapel. Perhaps, she thought, if they liked what they saw when casting their ballot, they’d think of Cypress Fairbanks for their next funeral.

It might have worked. Brutus Carter was so impressed by the Cypress-Fairbanks set-up — a onestory home with a white façade and a Victorian-inspired interior, with wood panels, red curtains and gold accents — that he stopped to talk with the resident funeral director.

“We’d be happy to give you a tour,” the funeral director said, and introduced himself.

“My name is — don’t laugh — Brutus,” he said. His wife, Rosalind Carter, rolled her eyes (“Every time.”). When they left, at Rosalind’s insistence (if she let him talk he’d never stop), Brutus had a brochure tucked under his arm.