cross most of the state, voters were as scarce as Sacajawea dollars yesterday and nearly as precious.
Five hours after the polls opened, only eight voters had cast state primary ballots at the Lena Park Neighborhood House in Roxbury, a double precinct with 563 registered voters.
''You can have a nap, more than likely,'' election clerk Leanora Whitted replied when we asked to observe at close range the great exercise of democracy in action.
For mind-numbing stretches, the hum of a Coke machine was the only distraction at this poll. A police officer on duty said he was postponing reading the newspaper. ''If I read it too early, I'll have nothing to do,'' he volunteered.
Finally, two women approached the polling station. The eight election workers snapped to attention, greeting the voters like old friends. In a way, they were.
''It's the nuns from Emmanuel House!'' exclaimed one clerk, who then checked in Sisters Esther Garcia and Kristine Koba. They're from the nearby Catholic Charities multiservice center and have voted there for 22 years and eight years, respectively.
''Oh, God, who am I going to vote for? So many names,'' Sister Esther chuckled as she pulled the voting machine drape behind her.
Here, as in many precincts around the state, there were no contested races in either the Democratic or Republican primaries for all nine offices on the ballot. All the Democratic incumbents were unopposed, and the GOP had fielded candidates for only two of the nine ballot berths.
Why bother, we asked the nun as she left.
''It's my duty to God and country,'' she said solemnly, ''and it is a privilege.''
Busier, but not much, was the precinct polling place in the Early Learning Center in Chelsea, a city without any contests on the primary ballot. By 2 p.m., only 31 of 469 registered voters had cast ballots.
''The most exciting thing is watching them go by,'' said Sandra Flanagan, an inspector at the poll, gesturing to chattering preschoolers who strolled with their teachers past the voting booths in the spotless lobby of the renovated Shurtleff School, a sign of hope in a gritty city.
About 10 minutes later, a solitary voter, number 32, entered. ''Even if it doesn't make an impact, it does in the heart,'' explained Genie Boland after she cast her ballot.
Boland, a grandmother and a 12-year Army veteran, considers voting an act of patriotism.
''Everything you do makes a difference,'' she said. ''It's all connected. If the kids know the parents don't care, they won't either.''
She doesn't take voting for granted. She was born in Indonesia, where democracy was a dream when her family left many years ago, first for the Netherlands and then the United States.
That idealism was hard to find yesterday oustide Kenmore Square, in a precinct consisting of the neck of land between the Charles River and Brookline, linking the Allston-Brighton section of Boston with the Back Bay. Nearly all the 682 registered voters are Boston University students, most from out of state. They rarely vote in state or local elections.
''Are you a voter?'' precinct warden Sam Lockhart, hope rising in his voice, asked a young woman who entered the makeshift polling place, a converted BU office and study area on Cummington Street.
''No, I came to pick up a test,'' she replied.
''You either got a 39 or 100,'' said another precinct worker, referring to the graded papers, sitting on a desk at the end of the room. ''Let's hope you got the hundred.''
Lockhart, three fellow election officials, and a Boston police officer sank back into their chairs, as the student left with her test in hand.
If ever there was a precinct where democracy was threatened with a shutout yesterday, it was Boston's famous Ward 21, Precinct 2. This polling place has logged single-digit vote totals more than once, setting a record in the 1989 City Council preliminary election, with one lonely vote, cast by a doctoral student hailing from a Kansas town called Little River.
''Are we still at one?'' asked Wayne Ashley, a clerk who had just returned with lunch for the crew. This was at 1 o'clock, six hours after the poll had opened.
''Nope, we're up to three,'' Lockhart responded.
''Oh, wow,'' Ashley said with a grin, washing down some chili from Burrito Max with a swig of iced tea.
A relief: No whitewash, the 1989 record still intact, and an ignominious blot on the democratic process averted.
A small consolation.
