Lawn Sign Wars

Many years ago, Giovanni Guareschi wrote a book entitled, "The Little World of Don Camillo" in which he chronicled the life of a priest and his atheist-antagonist-mayor; both of whom lived in a remote village of the Po River Valley region of Italy.  Fr. Camillo and his advesary were continually jousting in a game of one ups-manship.  Many of these games resulted in dialogues which the priest would have with the crucified Christ, who resided above the altar in the church sanctuary.  The Don was perpetually rationalizing his behavior to the risen Lord, stating, for example, that a verbal zinger or a blow to the backside with a pine bough was completely justified.  Naturally, Jesus had an entirely different perspective.
                      Welcome now, to the little world of Hal Camillo, where he and his adversary dwell in a hilltop hamlet of seven homes, overlooking greater Boring, Oregon, in the shadow of Mt. Hood.  His antagonist lives across the road and a scosh south of the Don's compound.  Without specific labelling, let it be said that one household belongs to the "R Squad", and the other is affiliated with the "D Squad".  Suffice to say, "Research and Development" is not applicable terminology in this duel of wits and deployment, which began in the fall of an even-numbered year, over a decade ago.
                         In preceding years, all was bliss and brotherhood.  Together, principal parties would wine, dine, joke and lie at a fairly friendly, neighborly clip.  Then, it happened.
                          The "R Squad" fired the opening salvo with a single, distinctly colored political lawn sign on HIS grass adjoining the neutral zone, which is Wally Road.  Well, a report such as that needed an equal and opposite return of fire, didn't it, and it came in short order.  Each year the stakes have been raised to the point where now, one cannot see the the elision fields for the political turf tussle.  Our opponent has appropriated the sod of a kindred spirit (aka: "henchman"), whose property adjoins his.  However,  he has not found a way to stake on claim on blacktop.  Hence, the first sign any passerby sees as they climb the upper reaches of our hilltop belongs to the team with the greatest frontage, namely moi.  Moi may be outnumbered, but he is not outflanked.
                            It behooves a newcomer or tradesman travelling in the neutral zone to be aware that heeding the signs - either to the left or to the right - for a significant period of time, he/she does so at his/her own peril, lest he/she be stamped as either an R or D Squad sympathizer.
                             Two other considerations are worthy of mention:  Firstly, ours is a dead-end road.  The only regular traffic it ever sees are meter-readers, mail, parcel and newspaper carriers. Secondly, the most mature, rational explanation for continuing this political battle: he started it.  Forgive me, Lord.

Here's to the Class of '55

Every five years, as summertime nears,

An announcement arrives in the mail.

A reunion is planned; it'll be really grand.

Make plans to attend without fail.

I'll never forget the first time we met;

We tried so hard to impress.

We drove fancy cars, smoked big cigars,

And wore our most elegant dress.

'twas quite an affair; the whole class was there. 

It was held in a fancy hotel.

We wined and dined, and acted refined.

Everyone thought it was swell.

The men conversed about who'd been first
To achieve fortune and fame.
While spouses described their fine houses,
And how beautiful their children became.

The homecoming queen, who'd once been
lean, now weighed in at one ninety-six.
The jocks who were there
Had all lost their hair.
Cheerleaders could no longer do kicks.

No one had heard about the class nerd
Who'd guided a spacecraft to the moon;
Or poor little Jane, who'd always been plain.
She married a shipping tycoon.

                                                                                                                  The boy we decreed "most apt to succeed"

 Was serving ten years in the pen.

 While the one voted least was now a priest.

 How wrong we can be, now and then!

 They awarded a prize to one of the guys

 Who seemed to have aged the least.

 Another was given to the grad who'd driven

 The farthest to attend the feast.

 They took a class picture, a curious  

 mixture of beehives, crew cuts, wide ties.

 Tall, short or skinny, the style was mini;

 You never saw so many thighs.

  At our next get-together, no one had cared

  If they impressed their class mates, or not.

  The mood was informal, a whole lot more

  normal.

  By this time we'd all gone to pot.

It was held out-of-doors, at the meadow lake shores.

We ate hamburgers, cole slaw and beans.

Then most of us lay around in the shade

In our comfortable t-shirts and jeans.

By the fiftieth year, it was abundantly clear,

We were definitely over the hill.

Those who weren't dead had to crawl out of bed,

And be home in time for their pill.

And now, I can't wait; they've set the date!

Our sixtieth is coming, I'm told.

It should be a ball; they've rented a hall

At the Shady Rest Home for the old.

Repairs have been made on my hearing aid;

My pacemaker's been turned up on high.

My wheelchair is oiled, and my teeth have been boiled,

And I've bought a new wig and glass eye.

I'm feeling quite hearty, and I'm ready to party.

I'm gonna dance 'til dawn's early light.

It'll be lots of fun, but I just hope that there's one

Other person who can make it that night.

                                                                                                    

                                                                                         Iambic Hal-tameter, by poets laureate

                                                                                                                           Al Mond  and Phil Bert