I compose this column on a deck overlooking the Pacific Ocean in a seaside town of Newport, Oregon. I have just returned from the Lincoln County Fair, a mini-festival of vendors, livestock auctions, and country music, a venue that cried out to me, loud and clear: “You are not in Leverett, Massachusetts anymore, Geno!” One vendor in particular caught my attention. Several tall TRUMP signs waved in the wind above a large tent that housed hundreds of T-shirts, banners, bumper stickers and other assorted Trump paraphernalia.
As a reader of my columns, you may know that I do not write about political issues; I am not here to advocate for specific causes or candidates. That said, I must admit I have zero understanding of how anyone could cast a ballot for Donald Trump. Given the choice between a decent human being with declining mental capacities and a crude, corrupt, narcissistic man-child, I’ll take the former any day of the week.
Anyway, seated in a folding chair under the tent was a middle-aged woman, tattooed and pierced from head to toe (“not that there’s anything wrong with it.”) I approached her (much to the chagrin of family members who were at the fair with me) with the express purpose of having a calm, civil discussion about our choices in the upcoming November election. Such discussions are, admittedly, challenging for me, but I was determined to give it a go.
“This will sound a little strange,” I said, ” but I have never had the chance to speak with s.