For decades, he’s been a daily part of our Maine vacations. A tall man wearing a hat, smiling broadly as his stout dog bumped along behind him in the sand.
Always quick with a smile and small talk.
We’ve come to regard him as the most Magnanimous man on the beach.
Sometime around 2016 his hat turned a bright red even though his outward demeanor stayed the same.
Besides the words “Make America Great Again” embroidered on his ball cap, he never said anything political.
He just gave compliments about the Goodness of your dog as it crossed his path.
During the race in 2020, I noticed our magnanimous friend had changed some of his swag. In addition to his red hat, he had planted a flag on the tailgate of his vehicle that proselytized a second presidential term.
Now he’d become MAGAnimus.
His smile never wavered even when his flag turned blue and he cheered on “Brandon” with a cheeky wink and nod. But I’d noticed by this point that he’d stopped walking the length of the beach and planted himself in a low-slung chair within eyesight of his flashy slogan mobile.
To my dismay, beachgoers have always gravitated toward him — a king, so to speak, holding court.
Always a steady stream of them keeping up affable banter, all while seemingly ignoring the man’s increasingly blistering slogans: the latest of which unfurled a six-foot sentiment - “F🇺🇸K Biden” - into our consciousness with the help of the ocean breeze.
Relief is a feeling I didn’t expect to have as I deciphered the sentiment. He has been waging this war so long, he can’t stop fighting.
I know after all these years, the better part of valor was to resist being the fish who ran with that bait.
Instead of wearing a response on my sleeve or a picket sign, I have tended to seethe quietly, keeping my distance as best I can at least as far as the tides will allow. I have let my expression smooth over whenever I have to enter his kingdom … to access the stairs …or collect a specimen my dog may have deposited nearby.
But I can tell you it’s been impossible not to wonder what Thanksgiving dinner sounds like where he breaks bread. Is he surrounded by kindred spirits? Does it devolve into arguments and hard feelings? Or is it filled with people who talk about the weather in passing, and keep their distance the rest of the year?
It helps a little to feel sad for him since I can only picture a gathering not unlike the one on the beach - one in which dogs and pleasantries can’t obscure the rage and discomfort.
I don’t think he’s a sad character, though.
Truth be told, I’ve looked forward to seeing MAGA man camped out there more than I care to admit. The power of his insults is not all, but not entirely unconsuming.
Not that my vexation kept me from admiring the power of the waves, or the magic of sandcastles, or the joy of my kids taking off head first into the surf. Even the faint smell of funk in the air reminds me that not everything has to smell of roses. Maybe one day I should thank him since he reaffirmed for me that polite conversation can almost completely obscure any middle fingers thrust your way.
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