Voting Day

On the day that North Carolina did the Right Thing, I arose only slightly earlier than usual. I had intended to get up early enough to make it to the polling place just as it opened; but I missed that by a good hour -- and I had a good half-hour walk to get there.
I loaded my canvas Unshelved shoulder bag with water, an apple, Deighton's London Match to read while waiting in line (record anger and disgust-fueled voter turn-out expected!), Stones and My Morning Jacket to entertain me on the walk. Setting off down the Greenway, I was greatly appreciative of the loveliness of the morning in spite of the pollen count. Tree pollen has a way of making one feel as though he has ventured out of the ship without his space helmet. Other than that, the day was filled with promise.
There is something . . . bracing . . . spiritual . . . quaint, maybe even patriotic, and certainly reflectively meditative, about walking down a tree-lined path next to a wonderfully photogenic creek to get to your voting place.
O America!
Yeah. I was on my way to exercise my God-given right to actually participate in the governing process of this great nation. It didn't even matter that my vote is usually cancelled out by my mother-in-law's vote: it's the principle of the thing, you know. Who knows . . . perhaps the outrage engendered by the last eight years will work towards having my vote actually counted this time. Maybe the person who gets the most votes will win! What a dizzying prospect.
My voting place is a Christian school. It's bigger than some colleges I have known. The Lamb, it is well known, prospers in Charlotte. Making my way through acres of parked late-model SUVs, idly counting the many fish symbols displayed there, it occurred to me that the line was going to be quite long indeed -- and most likely very Republican.
I was wrong about that. I don't know where all those SUV owners were. Classes were cancelled for Election Day, and though the poll workers vastly outnumbered the voters present at the time; there were barely a dozen people in the polling place.
The sweet little old lady registrar ran her index finger down the list several times.
"Uh-oh."
"Excuse me?"
"There seems to be a problem . . ."
She looked around anxiously for some sort of assistance from someone real, imagined, or from on high. Here we go, I seethed to myself. It's really happening. They know I'm a Democrat. They're out to get me. Everything I read and heard is the ghastly, evil truth . . .
"Oh, there it is!"
It didn't take long, was very simple (yes, an idiot could do it), and you could see the paper ballot being generated by your button choices. But I was wary. I checked everything twice.
Later -- much later -- I watched Ma Clinton celebrating her apparent two-point Indiana triumph as though she had been vindicated once and for all -- and found myself once again fantasizing about Chelsea.
Here and there bits and pieces seen through political-junkie hangover haze on America's morning "news" dump: Reverend Wright, Hillary's need to pull this thing out and heal the Democratic party, Reverend Wright, race isn't an issue, Reverend Wright, Bill worked his heart out, Reverend Wright, race is an issue, race, Wright, white, Thank God for McCain who is serious, honorable and white . . .
And so it goes.