Frustration with the First Amendment (momentarily)

Sitting in my car at a stoplight today, I was infuriated by the Mercedes SUV in front of me, and it's bumper stickers. "NOBAMA 2012" & "OneBigAssMistakeAmerica". I honestly had a moment where I felt a sort of inner-rage take over the area in & around my solar plexus, and in fact, I wanted to rev my engine & drive into & over; (crushing) this lone, impeccably white, Mercedes SUV & Obama 'naysayer'.

A long day at work & the hustle across town had me multi-tasking--listening to the regularly-scheduled afternoon program on our local NPR station (http://ipr.interlochen.org/), my mind was abuzz with the after work to do list (gardening, house-tidying & packing; grocery shopping, potluck-prepping, etc). In addition, I was on my way to the local hospital, where my young nephew Jack, was about to leave the recovery room after his first surgical procedure (a tonsil & adenoid-ectomy http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tonsillectomy), so I imagine that a part of my psyche was worried for him--I endured the same procedure when I was his age, some 31 years ago, and it hurt like hell.

So there I sat, at my red light in Traverse City, MI. Angry. Frustrated. Feeling almost violent. And then the light turned green & I shook my head (at myself). I would never hurt a flea (well, if it were chomping on my puppy Ruby I might!) But seriously... I am pro-peace, not pro-violence. My frustration is probably equally felt (albeit from the opposite vantage point) by said impeccably white Mercedes SUV driver... especially when they see things like these, on cars like mine...

The First Amendment Rules!

Devotion

For my Daddio…
Sauntering from the entryway, across the khaki-speckled carpet and up the two walnut stained wooden steps from living to dining room, his steps are purposed. The telltale sign of his ‘summer tan’ on the honey brown skin of his muscled legs—markings that reveal his line of outdoor work.
He works five days a week outside—the sunshine beating down upon his sixty year old body in all the uncovered places. In summertime we smile when seeing him out of his work boots, walking barefoot through the kitchen or on the sandy beach of the Lake Michigan shoreline in his swim trunks. Out of his normal disguise, we see lighter spaces of skin—from mid calf to toe tip and mid thigh to hipbone. They beam from their usual hiding spots (behind Gore-tex® work boot and ruddy-brown or olive green cargo shorts).
As is his ritual, he lets out a soft, sweet, ‘hey babe,’ hoping to find her somewhere nearby. Looking to extend another dose of love—a squeeze of shoulder or tush, a rub of ribcage—the warm habit of this man among women. Plodding one foot in front of the other he drops off his aging lunch cooler empties two drops of black coffee from the metal-green thermos—the age of which dates back to even before 1986 I believe. It was in his pickup truck and therefore survived the blazing house fire.
Placing small reused plastic Baggies of leftover carrots and crackers on the countertop near the pantry, another of his daily routines is complete. As he steps across the hardwood floor she slips from around the corner and the calloused palm of his right hand outstretches to reach for her.
If I were a scientist I might outfit him with a probe and measure the heart-swell possessed of his own accord. It would certainly chart top—the Richter scale having no experience with his level of devotion.