Reflections - Rural Conversations
Kindness Garden Flag
When Spence and I built our log house, yard signs in the rural community puzzled me.
Among the campaign signs—Weiderspahn for KindCommissioner, Kelly for Congress, McVay for Judge—stood a preponderance for Jesus. Jesus on the wire-frame held cardboard. Jesus in two tones of wood. And Jesus with slogans like Jesus is the Answer.
Riding with Spence along the country roads, I joked, “Looks like Jesus is running for office.”
We settled in. Campaign signs came down. Jesus signs stayed in place. Crosses decorated with plastic flowers marked curves where loved ones had died. And Mennonites posted mini Bible lessons. In Everything Give Thanks, Honor Thy Father and Mother, Go and Sin No More. Joining the country conversation, we rotated garden flags of cardinals, spring tulips, and a turkey strutting in Pilgrim shoes.
In the summer of 2008, Mary Ann, our late neighbor, hustled to the porch. Her white hair spiked like bee balm and she panted as if she’d been jogging. “Do you want an Obama sign?” She rubbed her gnarled hands. “I’m going to the Democratic headquarters to get signs for Hutch and me. I can get one for you.”
Grouchy Hutch, who answered questions with a shotgun, supported Obama? But I hesitated, remembering three mailboxes.
Teenagers, playing a moving vehicle version of tee-ball, had bashed our first two mailboxes. The second attack broke their bat. Half lay on the driveway below the mashed box. The third mailbox, a cute shingled cottage model, lasted until I took a photo of the township grader smoothing West Creek Road. The grumpy, long-since fired driver scowled at me like Bluto scowled at Popeye. Spence pulled me away. “He doesn’t want you to take his photo.” We returned from our walk to find the mailbox lifted out of the ground and hauled away—not the usual task for a grader.
Would an Obama sign annoy a passerby enough to throw a stone through the window or damage another mailbox? But, if the neighbors on both sides of us wanted to post Obama signs, of course, we would join them. “Yes. Thank you.”
Three days before the election, Mary Ann returned with a poster. “Headquarters was out of yard signs. They gave me these.”
I hung the poster in the guest room window.
Neither Mary Ann nor Hutch hung theirs.
By Thanksgiving, no windows had been broken and the mailbox stayed intact. Nevertheless, I moved the poster to the refrigerator where I’ve hung all other political signs—except two. Spence hammered in homemade wooden signs, one for John and the other for Kathy, Republican friends we talked into running for Township Supervisors.
Joining other election cycles, Spence hung a large US flag from the porch to blend in with more conservative neighbors. I contented myself with garden flags because I didn’t want to offend anyone.
Then 2016 changed the landscape. Country folks switched their allegiance. Instead of one Jesus sign, two red, white, and blue Trump signs flanked driveways plus Trump flags waved in their yards. One farmer built a horse trailer-size Trump billboard in the middle of his pasture. Another, spaced a line, like the old Burma-Shave advertisements, at the edge of his hayfield. Our son Charlie said, “If twenty-three hadn’t convinced me, did he think the twenty-fourth would?”
By November, only one Jesus sign remained. Trump’s were too numerous to count.
Trump signs stayed up throughout his Presidency. That made sense since he continued to campaign. And in 2020 the landscape added more including a vintage Oldsmobile with Trump painted on its side.
Trump 2020 Car
Despite Trump’s loss, Congress confirming the electoral votes, and Biden’s Inauguration, the signs remained. During February, March, and April, I passed yard signs which seemed to shout:
Make America Great Again
The Pandemic is a Chinese Hoax
Build the Wall
By May, with nary a Jesus sign to soften the Trump entourage, the signs made my stomach cramp. Did folks really want to suppress women, minorities, and LGBTQ again? Go maskless, infect neighbors, and send people to the hospital? Stop immigrants who could fill vacant medical and trade jobs in the aging, dwindling rural workforce?
Mid June, Spence called over his computer. “You’d like what this librarian created.”
Pushing the pillows away, I plopped onto the sofa beside him. On his computer screen sparkled an “in this house we believe” banner confirming my beliefs.
“Send me the link.”
Every day for a week, I clicked on the link, grinned at the slogans, and clicked off. Unfortunately, the librarian’s banner sparked controversy. The Internet lit up with dozens of counter “in this house” beliefs. Though I had vowed not to go along, stay silent, or run away from uncomfortable situations, I didn’t want to join the battle of banners. I needed to find a balance, a respectful alternative for the conversation.
Finally, below rows and rows of flags filled with partisan bickering, I discovered the answer. On denim, in pastel colors with peace doves, came a seven-word list of inoffensive abstract nouns.
Kindness
Peace
Equity
Love
Inclusion
Hope
Diversity
I ordered the flag.
Spence hung it.
No one commented.
No cars slowed for drivers to read the list.
A month later, I drove Spence and three howling cats to the vet in Greenville for the cats’ annual checkup. Across the countryside, Trump signs had thinned and Jesus signs had popped back up. On the half-hour drive home, I asked Spence to count them for me.
He couldn’t.
Gilbert scratched out of his carrier.
Struggling to contain the panicked cat, Spence turned into a fluffy white pillow.
I counted while Gilbert’s brothers mewed protests from the back seat. Cat distractions may have made me miss one or two. Nevertheless, the count indicated a trend. Eleven for Trump. Seven for Jesus.
This week the signs lining the road between Cochranton and Milledgeville didn’t say MAGA, Drain the Swamp, or All Aboard the Trump Train. They read Sweet Corn, Melons, Tomatoes, and Duck Eggs.
Spence and I continued the country conversation. With a nod to the changing season, we switched the kindness flag for one decorated with mums and sunflowers.
Mum and Sunflower Garden Flag
