Dear Guy Who Lives In That One House I Always Thought Was So Cute,

The snow descended in giant flakes; I walked by your tiny house. The leaves formed an emerald canopy; I admired the Wedgewood blue exterior and clean white trim. The autumn sky filled with shimmering gold and ruby red; I silently lauded your small living space: They only take as much as they need. Nice.

Then one year as the leaves changed into papery brown harbingers, the Trump sign came out—and not just a standard yard sign, but a massive waving TRUMP--NO MORE BULLSHIT flag.

Yes, I unequivocally cede your right to free speech. And yes, I swear hard and loud enough to turn the air blue. But that giant BULLSHIT? How do the thousands of people traveling along this busy road explain it to their first graders? And must you weaponize every single thing? That is no a simple sign about political support. It’s a sign that says, I'm going to scream BULLSHIT at the top of my lungs in front of your first graders again and again and you can't do anything about it. HAHAHA!

Okay, buddy. If that's who you want to be, fine.

I saw you puttering around the yard one day. I had not expected your thick beard and ear gauges, although I'm uncertain what I did expect. Oh well, whatever. I called you names in my head. I made assumptions. I kept walking.

Until that day you were mowing your lawn, which brings me to … smoking.

Back in the day when everyone smoked, everyone, well, smoked. It was a ubiquitous activity replete with details, and boy did I notice them. Smoking revealed things about a person. Using a Zippo was the epitome of cool, but a guy who failed to light my cigarette with it on a first date wouldn't get the opportunity to prove himself again. Then there was the unfortunate detritus associated with the habit. I'd shake my head in disgust if a pile of butts littered the asphalt surface of a parking lot. Who dumps an ashtray out like that?

But the worst indication of an unapologetic slob played out in greasy spoon diners and white table restaurants: a smoker extinguishing their butt in a plate of half-eaten food instead of in the ashtray right next to it. Such behavior made you a disrespectful jerk in my book with little chance of redemption.

On that day, the day I was walking and you were mowing, no one was smoking. That didn't matter because while you may not have been smashing a Winston into a barely touched plate of chicken parm, you were on a riding mower. That represents a whole volume of inference for me, and the results were not good.

Really, buddy? A young guy like you on a riding mower? For a half-acre lot? Maybe you do take more than you need. I shook my head. Figures.

The closer I got, the more apparent it became that my walking path and your mowing path were going to get entirely too close. Without a cigarette in sight, I was on the brink of finding out exactly who you were; like one of those people in a speeding car who flip me the bird, or scream some obscenity about my body, or in the case of those positively darling coal rollers, blast me with a noxious plume of black exhaust.

Instead you did something that changed everything.

You stopped the mower well in advance of it throwing a stinging pebble into my calf. Then you waved and smiled so big, it eclipsed that giant flag.

And just like that you transformed from Trump Bullshit Flag guy to Stopped The Mower guy. In the buggy heat. In your sweaty cargo shorts. On an unremarkable Wednesday afternoon.

I walk 30–35 miles a week and have done so for 20 years. Hence, I know a thing or two about mower/pedestrian etiquette. My friend (can I call you friend?), you aced it. Top shelf. Perfect execution. Maybe you don’t take more than you need.

People say that you can't change someone's mind, but while I've walked in front of your place a hundred times or more since that episode, I've never reduced you to your Trump flag again. That small respectful gesture of kindness and consideration changed everything. It boosted my faith in you as well as this troubled land.

We have two options before us. We either stop regarding one another as enemies or we destroy the country. We both know the little kids asking about the giant BULLSHIT deserve our best effort. As for the people orchestrating hate campaigns that pit us against each another, you won’t find them navigating a cart through the aisles of the local discount grocery, or sliding the cheer team an extra ten bucks after they wash your car, or walking in front of your house on a Wednesday afternoon. They are no where in sight, but I’m right here.

I need you.

I need you as part of this neighborhood. I need you as part of this country. I need your gauges and beard. And your sweaty cargo shorts that look just like my husband's sweaty cargo shorts. I need you to disagree with me and hang tough and figure this (ahem) bullshit out.

And I need you to need me in the same way.

Love, Erin

ps: I'm glad you've replaced the Trump flag with an American flag, even if your politics stayed the same.

pss: Did the flag replacement have anything to do with the new play things in the backyard? Nevermind, you don’t have to answer.

#####

Unrelated, but my brother John O’Brien (1960 - 1994) took today’s photo. He made notes on the back.

You didn’t date it, Johnny. And that pencil scribble in the middle, whatever it is, doesn’t cut it. Gramp O’Brien said if there’s no date on a document it doesn’t count. Guess I’ll make an exception this time.