Slice of America on whole wheat

 

See this? This is the back window of the truck parked next to our car.

Both of our vehicles are in the parking lot of a typical, rural destination in autumn.

The kind of place where families go. They pull Radio Flyer wagons and fill them with freshly picked bags of apples and pumpkins they selected from the patch. They may even have a gallon of fresh cider and a bag of doughnuts still warm from the oven. Kind of a wholesome venue.

Our vehicle contains a family. A mother. A father. Children. A grandmother.

Their vehicle also contains a family. A mom. A dad. Two children. Two children, who look old enough to read, who are seated directly in front of these words. 

Did you read those words? On this vehicle. This family vehicle. At a family venue. I erased a letter here and there to keep this family friendly. Sort of.

All I could do was grab my camera and snap a quick picture and jump in the passenger seat and get out of the parking lot before that family saw me and kicked my butt. You know they would.

It would be a battle in a muddy parking lot in rural America. A battle over who among us was the Real American in the Real America. This is what it has come to. Everyone looking at everyone else’s stickers and lawn signs, wondering: Whose side are  you on? Are you with us or against us?

Scary times.