I’m back. Got my little “I voted” sticker on my shirt — somewhere north of my left lung, if not my heart. So — along with the rest of the blogs calling the plays today — I have returned to tell you all what I learned at the clubhouse of the mobile home park down the street, closer to the creek, which is my polling place.

First of all, I walked in and the people at the table said Hi. There was no line; never seen a line to vote in this town. There were about six voting stations set up, and the machine that sucks away your ballot into the abyss. (We have paper ballots here, marked with a navy ink, felt-tip pen.) Three of the six stations — styrofoam and cardboard, just like on TV — were empty. I chose one by the door.

I eavesdropped as I completed the ballot, using a cheat sheet I’d filled out at home and folded into my pocket. What I, the consumate vigilant and astute blogger, can report is this: No one in that polling place was doing, saying, wearing, or displaying anything which could be construed to denote a political cause or opinion of any kind. Except that, when he handed me the sticker for my shirt, one man said, “You can wear this with pride.”

The topic of the day was how long we’ve all lived in our little town, and how much it’s changed. Alas, this, for the most part, can’t be blamed on George W. Bush.

That’s it. We’ll see how my observations play out as the night wears on. God help us all, and bless America. And I’ll leave you with this, which I heard Molly Ivins say on C-Span last night:

“It’s always a pain in the ass when the Klan shows up.”