Opposite Sides of the Fence but Equal Lawn Time

The two plastic yard signs planted in the mulch in Fairfax County confound passersby. Same with two others stuck in a lawn four blocks away. What kind of people -- at the end of a divisive campaign, in a battleground state -- would have signs for both Sen. John McCain and Sen. Barack Obama in front of their homes?

Alex Fetgatter stepped inside out of the drizzle one recent night, dropped his gray fleece on Ezzie, the family poodle, and, along with his dad, Jim, started to explain.

They have been living together south of Alexandria since Alex graduated from the University of Virginia this summer, and the old patterns are still in play: Father takes on the liberal media at the breakfast table, seeing bias in the coverage. Photos capturing unflattering Republican facial expressions are always a good trigger. Holding forth may then ensue.

"It's amazing what you can do with a picture," Jim, 63, says.

"I just tease him about how obsessed he is with all this," says Alex, 22.

"I'm really not."

"Umm, I don't know about that."

They do a lot of jabbing and joking, and that's the way they approach their private conversation about the nation's politics.

There are no bespectacled moderators or 90-second time limits in the places where most Americans argue about politics, just the love, history and imperfect patter of communication and miscommunication that shape family life. Campaign signs can be quick distillations of those debates. More rarely, the flimsy plastic exclamations advertise unresolved clashes.

After Jim's McCain sign went up, Alex parked his Jeep Cherokee -- well, the Jeep Cherokee he was borrowing from his dad -- in front to block the view. Jim, who had a Bush sign four years ago, said he'd prefer if his son got his own.

"I woke up at 6:30, and it was there -- a magic mushroom," Jim said.

And that was that. Though it wasn't, really.