I drove my friends, Chuck and Wanda, past a sea of Trump signs. We were winding through the town of Spring Creek. “Why,” Wanda asked, “are they so angry?”
I had been avoiding politics. Politics and long drives don’t mix. But now it couldn’t be avoided. Chuck and Wanda are fly anglers, and we were headed to one of my “sweet spots”, Spring Creek. The only way to Spring Creek is through Spring Creek. If that makes any sense.
We passed more modest homes. They needed work. Each had a sign. A Trump For President sign has the same effect on Wanda as a squirrel has on my Labrador Retriever. Her tail goes straight up.
“Look at that!” she said. We passed a veritable shrine. A cutout of Trump, sporting a MAGA hat, grinned from an overgrown yard. A banner hung across the peeling porch. “Thank You President Trump.”
“Thanks for what?” Chuck smirked.
“For speaking out,” I said. “Working people like Trump. They feel he’s one of them.”
This brought howls of indignation from both my friends.
“Let me explain,” I said quickly. “Trump is an outsider. They are outsiders. Trump speaks his mind. They speak their minds. Or wish they could. Trump has persevered, overcoming extraordinary obstacles, weathering every insult, defying what he calls a self-serving, entrenched system. Only his children love him. Sound familiar?”
“Not at all,” Chuck said.
“It’s familiar to working folk. And when Trump talks about America First, and freedom, and China, and jobs, and taxes, and wages, and winning, and standing up to the elites who for forty years and through successive administrations sold off the country’s production to the lowest bidder, he’s talking to them.”
Wanda said something about Trump being an enemy of the working man.
“Maybe,” I said. “But you were wondering about his appeal. And I told you.”
We passed a South Asian man mowing his lawn. He had a Trump sign. A mixed-race couple walked with their kids to the park. The boy carried a glove and bat. More and more, small towns are home to immigrants and big-city refugees. Living is cheap, work available. Even if it’s only driving truck for the co-op or clerking at the Save ‘N Go. People get along. The “anger” Wanda sees everywhere is curiously missing.
Turning onto Tanager, we passed a street of graceful old homes with large, wrap-around porches. Yards were large. Flower gardens were artistically tended. Each house seemed to have a Biden sign.
“Finally,” Wanda said. “Sanity.”
Again, maybe. We all carry our own definitions. For me, sanity is wading a rippling bluffland creek, water clear as glass, the hummingbirds humming, an eagle catching a thermal… and politics far away.
Richard Donnelly lives in Minneapolis, Minnesota. Classic flyover land. Which makes us feel just a little… superior. He publishes a weekly column of essays on the writing life at richarddonnelly.substack.com