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.