While waiting in a long snaky line to vote in the local grade school, I stood behind a trio of chipper little old ladies. We chatted. One of them, learning it would take longer than expected, realized she’d be late for her next appointment. “Oh, and I forgot my cell phone,” she said, “because I don’t have a cell phone.”

Then she explained her theory of voting to me. “If you don’t know who to vote for, just vote against the incumbent.” She chuckled merrily.

“Yup,” I said, “it’s time for some new blood.”

What a fabulous process, voting. The excitement of it, the coming together, taking part in this great thing called America. Who would want to miss that?

We real people come out, like the poll worker named George with a VFW pin and a blinkered expression, the heavyset black lady with a purple Baltimore Ravens sweatshirt, the pretty young woman with the serious face. There in the gym, casting our ballots underneath the basketball hoops. And the powerful have to listen to us.

Think of the millennia of human scratching and clawing it took to get to this point, up from the caveman ooze, all those abusive monarchies, all those intolerant theocracies, to get to where us unfashionable people get to have a voice. Damn, who would want to miss that?