When I read from “Love in Condition Yellow,” I like to share recent anecdotes that illustrate how my marriage provides a quirky way to examine some of the divisions in America within the context of my on-going love story.

Here’s a recent one: 

On Christmas Eve, while my husband Barrett, his brother, and I were frantically opening cardboard boxes that I had piled in our back office cottage, I looked at the return address of one and stopped short. 

“Whoa!” I said excitedly, “Hey you two check this out. We got a box from ‘Santa’s Elf!’”

“Wait a second,” Barrett said, frowning. “What’s the return address?” 

Uncle Cameron, a federal prosecutor, also looked concerned.

“Some address in Oakland,” I said. “Let’s open it!”

“Hang on a sec. It could be dangerous,” Barrett insisted, and took the package into the bathroom closing the door firmly behind him. 

As I got online and typed in the address, identifying it as a central post office facility, Barrett emerged with a quizzical expression on his face. “It’s a bunch of toys.”

I looked in the box and immediately recognized many of the things that my son had requested on his list to Santa, which we had mailed a few weeks prior. As we’d approached the big blue mailbox, my son looked up at me and asked, “That’s all I need? Just ‘Santa Claus The North Pole’?”

“That should do it,” I’d said, and he’d popped it in with a grin.

I ran upstairs and pulled the copy of my son’s letter to Santa that I’d saved in the scrapbook pile. It was surprising to see so many of the items in the box: Yugio cards, a Transformer, a coffee maker, a toy for our cat.

“Creepy,” Barrett said and Cameron nodded.

“C’mon you guys!” I said. “I’ve heard about this. There are people at the post office who help out Santa.” Determined to convince them, I dove into Google and unearthed an article from the local paper inviting folks to be Santa’s helpers. 

I was right about the box being an anonymous act of kindness, but Christmas Day’s terrorist attempt made me aware of the continuing presence of malignant elements in the world. 

Barrett’s present to Uncle Cameron was a ticket to choose an item from “the man-chest.” What’s Barrett’s man-chest? It’s a plastic footlocker in the basement full of things he thinks are totally cool but already has too many of: Spyderco Knives in many sizes, various multi-functional Leatherman tools, a Ka-bar knife or two, a gun cleaning mat, a surveillance periscope, a Glock pistol bag, flashlights of various sizes, and a sniper watch complete with ballistic calculator.

I don’t have a “woman-chest.” If I did, I suppose it might have yoga props, candles, various nature guides, organic seeds, photos of my children, and a copy of “Three Cups of Tea.”

As you can see, I am a dove and Barrett is a hawk. When I met him, I was a left-leaning, more-than-once-arrested peace activist. He was a Republican Army Airborne Ranger, a Major in the Army Reserves and a police officer in Oakland, CA. I like to say that I used to run away from cops dressed in riot gear and now there’s one in my bed, except, er, not in riot gear. 

My best present to Barrett was a Stormy Kromer cap that helps him remember a friend who was killed in the line of duty this past year. His best present to me? A donation to buy a goat for an impoverished family, especially the note Barrett wrote with it: “In honor of the best person I know.”

If you have differences – political or otherwise – with people you love, this column is for you. Or if you’ve ever been curious about “the other side,” if you believe that politics don't  define character and that reasonable people can disagree, then I invite you to read my exploration of differences, peace, love, family, and American politics.