So, I voted. It was easy out here in the California burbs. No lines, in and out at 10:00 am in the morning. My husband, who probably would have liked me to change my vote for his birthday today (we don't agree on our top pick this year), endured his nerdy wife who insisted on donning her "Proud to Be an American" shirt. I said a silent prayer of thanks for a husband who can tolerate a wife who disagrees and rarely takes direction in the manner he would like, AND shares my enthusiasm (now, didn't always) for voting so much so that he takes the day off and loves to make an event of it. And, of course the fact that I can vote at all! We packed our 18 month old into the car, along with his push car, and a plan to switch off and keep him entertained as we took our turns in the voting booth.

People in my neighborhood are big fans of absentee voting, but I just can't do it. There is something so fundamentally satisfying and celebratory about walking into one of my neighbor's garages, who happens to be a town council member and former mayor (they take turns in our town), and feeling that paper ballot in my hands, trying to remember my school day scantron experience and carefully color in the bubbles (do today's students still even get this important training--a piece of minutiae interesting probably only to me to investigate later), and listen to the inevitable conversation I hear EACH and EVERYTIME I have voted here: Chickens. I don’t know why, but at precisely the moment that I arrive to vote with no prompting or participation from me, talk turns to backyard poultry. Now I grew up on a small ranch, and did indeed raise chickens, but I don’t even want to think about what about me prompts the talk to turn to discussion of poultry.

Thankfully, I have pre-marked my sample ballot because the talk of backyard chickens and egg yields going on in the background have once again riveted my attention. It's very comforting for me. In the background I can also hear my husband and son laughing and talking to one another, and the little "beep-beep" of my son's push car which keeps the main person I am voting for firmly in mind. "Beep-Beep Momma...make it count...Beep-Beep!"

In the end voting is not just about picking the leaders and positions on issues I have (mostly) agonized in my choices over, but also the grounding reality of life for my little corner of America: backyard chickens and 18 month old race car drivers. It is this which makes me profoundly proud of America.