to vote.

When I was sixteen, a junior in high school, I took an American History class at Severna Park High School with Mr. Haring. Everyone liked him because he was pretty nice and reasonable about late assignments, but occasionally he would get really fired up because either he felt like we weren't taking him seriously, or because of something socio-political.

I don't think I thought much about the electoral system at sixteen, the inherent importance of the right to vote our leaders and judges into office, or the gravity of living under the umbrella of democracy. It was not an election year and I think it is hard to conceptualize the value of our form of government here in America anyway, especially in high school, having seen so little of what is real nationally and more, spanning the globe. Mr. Haring knows American history like nobody I've ever talked to, and I remember he was talking about the Civil War, the fight for African Americans, among other things, to obtain the right to the vote, and I do not remember if someone made a comment or if the pressure in the air was just right to ignite the spark, but all of a sudden the man was raving. He was mad like we had never seen him mad before, drawing his lips thin and stroking his goatee with his index finger and thumb. He talked about our forefathers, our grandfathers' grandfathers, who died by bullet or bayonet in the Revolutionary War, fighting for sovereignty from Great Britain. He barked forward in history, talking about the war of 1812, and the glorious passion that lays sewn into the first American Stars and Stripes, in the words of Francis Scott Key as he wrote what would become our National Anthem. He talked about the Battle of Gettysburg, and our grandfathers, such a short while ago, fighting across the ocean. It was all for the sake of DEMOCRACY. I'll never forget his face, the frustration. He said that our forefathers, my father's father's father's father's father, gave up everything to protect American Democracy which, he continued, hinges on the individual's right to vote - our right to popularly elect our leaders. He said that in the 2000 election an absurdly low number of the voting population in America had actually showed up at a polling station to place a vote. The percentage was abysmal and Mr. Haring said that he had never been so disappointed with his fellow Americans.

A few weeks ago Mark and I visited a friend in Washington and went to the Museum of American History. There is an exhibit there with the real, war-torn, original American flag from the Battle of Baltimore in September of 1812. It's got pieces missing and it's threadbare, but it lays on a graduated spot-lit platform in an otherwise dark exhibit and it took my breath away. I want to remember the history of this country because it is gorgeously brave and heroic. Though the state of our country now, in many ways, breaks my heart, there is some foundational strength to be found in the fortitude, the intelligence, the wisdom, the grace and the faith of our founding generations. I am proud to be an American.

This morning I heard an interview on NPR Weekend Edition. The reporter was on the campus of Bowling Green State University in Ohio interviewing students about their intentions to vote or not to vote. Most of the students he spoke to said things like I'm probably not going to vote because I don't like either candidate or I don't want to have any part in electing Romney or Obama or I don't care who becomes President this time, neither one is saying anything relevant to me. (That last one really got me). All I could think of was that American History lecture and Mr. Haring ten years ago, how as long as I live I will never sit out an election, how casting my vote on an electronic ballot box in the city courthouse is the way I put my chips in, how I demonstrate my citizenship, how I say thank you to those who fought and died to guarantee that their children's children, myself, would be blessed to live in a democracy.

boys and busted knees.

It is football season all around; college football (which nobody in my house cares about), NFL (which one person in my house cares about an unhealthy amount) and Winston-Salem City Flag Football (which everyone in my house cares about... a lot.) Mark has played in this league for five years, September-December, most Tuesday nights. I love when it's football season because it comes in coordination with cooler weather and boots, wearing socks, cold cold wooden floors, the disagreement about what temperature is the heat threshold. Pumpkins are also a highlight. Anyway, the guys brought in this season with several shut out wins in a row, and they were on track to do it again last Tuesday night. Up by at least twenty points with fewer than three minutes left to play, all of the wives and fiances were cold and ready to go home, happy to take home winners (because when they aren't it's not pretty), and Mark threw a long pass to Kyle Welch, who plays wide receiver. It was a perfect throw, perfect catch, imperfect pivot. Kyle went down hard, crumpled up like trashed manuscript pages, rolled twice and then just layed there. Dana and I booked it over to the ten yard line where he was quite obviously exceptionally injured, groaning, panicked. It was terrible, even the pissed-off opposing players came over to offer At least you caught it, man.

Working for three orthopaedic surgeons does have its advantages, so Mark and I took the non-weightbearing Kyle to the home of the head NP at my office where she wrote him a script for some serious pain meds, put his blown out knee in an immobilizer, and told him to come with me to work the next day where one of the docs would take care of business. Owing to the fact that Kyle doesn't have a wife to deal with these yearly football injuries, it usually falls to Dana (friend and fellow football wife) and myself, so Mark and I brought Kyle to the homestead. Needless to say, it was a rather agonizing night for Kyle, but some day I think he will look back on it with something of appreciation. Mark sort of turned into Kyle's crutches. He all but carried him into the house, fixed him up with take-out food, took off his mud, sweaty socks, and to really put the crumbly topping on the muffin, held him up in the shower so he could wash off all the grime. I sat outside the bathroom door half laughing, cringing at the yelps of agony when Mark tried to get some of the mud off of the busted knee. When they opened the door Kyle said, "Well I don't think either of us will ever forget that."

Two days later we found out we're going to have a son. Neither of us knew "what" we were expecting, but when we saw that little boy squishing around on the ultrasound we both about fell apart. We knew his name would be Jack Marshall Evans, honoring some precious family members, and we spent Thursday night calling and texting, starting to imagine what life with a son will be like. I couldn't help but think about Tuesday night, the football, the injury, the twenty-eight year old boys that still play sports and take care of each other. I was thinking about a son maybe a little like Mark, maybe even a little like Kyle, and it made me sort of happy and excited for every minute of the future.

Kyle probably tore most of the acronyms in his knee, we'll find out next week. I texted him on Friday.

"By the way, it's a boy. -- Jack Marshall"

"Sweet. That's so awesome. Jack Daniel?"

Ha. Some things might never change.