Here's to all the decent people

What makes me most angry about Donald Trump as president of the U.S.A.?

All of the kind and decent people who live in my country. They deserve better. We deserve better.

I remember Dr. Kobayashi of Denver who made house calls and rescued me from extreme pain when I was 8 years old. Dr. K served his country, the one that locked him an internment camp at war's outbreak, and became a doctor in a city that wouldn't lease a space to him and his Nisei partners outside of The Red Line.

The group of young LDS members who picked up my girlfriend and I from the side of the highway along the Bonneville Salt Flats in 1972. The two drunk gamblers who gave us a ride in their Cadillac from Elko had been busted by the cops and we were left to fend for ourselves. The teens took us to SLC, bought us dinner, and did some mild proselytizing but I didn't mind.

My mother and father who voted Republican who now rest side-by-side in a Florida cemetery. They would have been shocked by Trump's behavior and by the curse words I use to describe him most of the time (sorry, Mom).

My friends I surfed with at Hartford Approach in Daytona Beach during my high school years. They weren't all angels but would lend a hand when you wiped out and your board surfed alone to shore. This was the 1960s, the big board days before leashes.

My Never Trumper sister who drove 650 miles round trip this weekend to help my Always Trumper brother celebrate his 60th birthday.

The retired African-American preacher who I mentored at a tutoring class run by a nun. He was learning how to read after decades pretending to read scripture from a Bible which he memorized as a youngster in church. He came to the class after his little granddaughter called him out when he couldn't read her a bedtime story.

My college calculus professor who tutored me for hours in a lost cause.

The Latino marine who saw me, recovering from surgery, struggling with a full grocery cart and loaded them in my car and assisted me to my seat. He's a fellow YMCA member who, for reasons known only to himself, always salutes me in the gym. I should have been saluting him this whole time.

The nuns at Mercy Hospital who got me to the nunnery so I could watch my favorite Saturday morning shows ("Mighty Mouse," "Sky King," "Fury"). No TVs in hospital wards in the 1950s.

There are scores of others. Small kindnesses and huge ones. You have your own stories -- feel free to share them here. I urge you, in their names and millions like them, to get to the polls on election day and vote out the narcissistic blowhard who occupies the White House. All of his acolytes, too.