Home of the Brave

I pulled my ballot from the envelope after passing the Vietnamese clerk, the Cambodian registrar, the African-American police officer, and, looking down at my Korean-Irish daughter, the firstborn American citizen on her father's side, I began to tell her how important it was to vote, and I couldn't get the words out, I got so choked up. This happens to me almost every time I vote - the swell of pride, the taste of tears. It is such a precious freedom to me, right up there with the right to worship the god of the corn muffin (if you so choose) and not be sent to the slammer, as well as that whole freedom of not being set aflame if I leave the house without my male escort. That's a nice one. It's a beautiful E-Day here in Bostonland.  The ladies at the coffee house down the street gave me a free cup, not for voting, but because I had no cash. Baby Girl is going commando around the house as a home remedy for this pernicious diaper rash of hers. Yes, we're feeling mighty free in all respects today. It is good to be an American, today and everyday, you betchya.