Tolerance: Can You Handle It?

Today began different, and I would love to say the birds brought in the rising sun on a different tune, or that I was awakened by that most natural of alarms, the rooster, but I might just attribute it to waking up next to a beautiful lady. Whatever it was, I woke with energy, inexplicable but welcome.
After a quick bowl of cereal, I headed out in my car for a water-side spot where I could read and organize my thoughts in the sanctity of that life-sustaining liquid. I approached a few, took some pictures, and I could not find that haven of recluse. I finally decided to head home and see what little I could accomplish there, since none of the spots I found met my unknown specifics. As I drove back, I passed a pond on the side of the road, but the pond itself was not what drew my interest, for there, on a dike holding back the pond water, stood an old, double-decked birdhouse. Even as I drove by at 50mph, its weather-beaten, peeled white paint and the dried grass poking from a few of the openings caught my eye through the shroud of skeletal twigs. I turned around and parked on the side of the road to get closer for an attempt at capturing its magic through the lens of my old camera. I took some close shots; moved closer and took more; I took shots of it from different heights and angles.
As I was finishing and headed back to the car, the owner of the property came out and yelled asking if he could help me. I went over and could tell he was anxious as to who I was. I introduced myself, told him who I was and what I was doing there. We began talking and he ended up being of much more help than I could have imagined when the morning began. He gave me names of local trees and shrubs. He pointed out the work of the muskrats (of which I saw two gliding and diving in the water) and elaborated the landscaping work he had put in to preserve the pond and swamp around it. One of the most intriguing was the makeshift flowgate to control the water level.
Five hours later we decided to call it a day and I headed home. During those five hours, we talked about patriotism, immigration, Barack Obama, native Americans and their crafts, his carpentry business, our shared appreciation of antiques, history, and a myriad of other topics. He had shown me the renovated inside and basement of his 100-plus year-old former farmhouse. We had even taken down a couple bottles of beer.
In the end, I came to respect Mike and his conservative, far-right views. I can't say that I agree with all of them, but what separates us is not enough to come between a potential friendship. He is a second generation American on his father's side, and a first on his mother's. He works hard as an owner of his carpentry/home remodeling company and it shows in his house, manners, and the calloused, bruised hands. He shares a passion for preserving marriage, or at least working like hell to preserve it, because there should be some weight in the oath that one takes.

His views on children needing strong support and basic morals is one that I share as an educator (yes, I consider myself an educator for life) and I also agreed with him on the point of preserving the values that make America the beacon of democracy. We even agreed that Obama is not the cause of Big Government and that there really is no much difference between the rich republicans and democrats. We also agreed to link up again (our homes are about a mile apart) and get to know each other. I would like to see the pond as the seasons progress and morph one into the next. I know it's not impossible to like and peacefully coexist with those of a differing opinion- I think it's what's called tolerance, if the meaning hasn't changed- and, sometimes, all it takes is an old, out-of-place birdhouse to remind one of that.