Wayne

Wayne is a cowboy; he lives up in the high country, home schools his brood, herds cows, wears chaps, funny boots, beaten up black hats, and holds strict right-wing political views. His wife is a nice woman, and does not have big hair. Dirt poor, forever scrambling for odd jobs, he beamed with pride when I once commented on a statement of his:
"Spoken like a true capitalist," I said.
He furrowed his brows when I spoke of Cuba's medical statistics.
"Castro? Fidel? Yeah, right."
On Native Americans:
"Assimilate. Why can't they just assimilate."
But, he didn't shoot me, ever, like I never pulled his hair in spite. Must like me a bit, like I like him, a bit.
His name is not really Wayne, it's worse than that. And some of the details I mentioned above are both true and false, but be assured of both his unique and multiple existence.
I rarely see him any more. Our children used to be friends, but they drifted apart as they grew into their teens, separated by lifestyle choices, and political views. Yes, all our children are "political". My daughter plays in chess tournaments, winces as she streaks between the front door and the car door on her way to public education, his rides in rodeos, and gallops through driving blizzards astride hoofed animals. They could find common ground, but they don't search for it. They are both champions in their chosen areas, neither boasts of triumphs in front of the other. They are "friends" on Facebook, but never linger on each other’s walls.

I use Wayne the way I use imaginary Moslems, Jews, Christians, Commies, realtors, or fanatics at the end of any spectrum, to have these worrying discussions with, where I can attribute to them absurd views, which I assume they hold, and then demolish them (their views that is).

I will let you know what stupid things I think on Wayne’s behalf in the next blog installment.