Confederate Island Neighbor

There’s a skinny old guy kitty-corner from us living in a beat up old trailer with a confederate flag flying among about two hundred bicycles assembled on his front lawn. The other day I was up on a ladder outside on the side of the house, pulling staples and boards, prepping the house for painting. He rode up on his bicycle and said, “Were you the one hanging clothes out the other day?” I affirmed. He said, “Remember when I was talking to you a few months ago and you were talking to your mom on the phone? Where are you from? Darryl's living in the past. Darryl thinks women should stay at home, cooking and taking care of the kids. I’m Darryl. I don’t go anywhere my bike can’t take me. Technology is bad. Cars, they take you places you should not go. A  woman’s place is in the home. Do you know the Amish? They don’t use cars.” I didn’t say anything. This time I was on the phone with my sister who lives in Portland, Oregon. I didn’t tell Darryl I was talking to her. She heard the whole thing, entertained by the funny accent and ideas. I've been told he's schizophrenic and had some hard knocks in the past. He rides past our house on the sidewalk about six times a day I’d guess. Last week I saw him in the town over which is about twelve miles away, looking a little confused. I've heard that he bikes there every day. I'm not surprised- almost every time I hop on my bike I run into him. He always says hi and something about loving bikes.

(I sneakily shot this photo from my bike the other day after I'd seen Darryl up the road going the other direction. There are more bicycles across the street and hidden in the trees.)
 

I'm living in the ocean

"That sounds like fun," Lulu said as I explained over the phone that we had a roommate. Ed. Justin's roommate before I decided to make the Outer Banks my permanent home. Plus there's James, the neighbor across the street who comes over almost every day.

It is often the four of us sitting in the living room. I'm the token girl. A role not unfamiliar. A role which I assumed in optometry school living with my boyfriend and his three male roommies in Oregon. It was an education in all things male, and perverse words I didn't know (but certainly need to know) like "tea-bagging".

There is a comfort sitting around the small living room, all seats filled, debates swirling around without any particular direction. Sometimes the TV is on, sometimes not.

Last night Ed was eating pizza, James, Chinese take out, and the two of us, Ahi tuna & broccoli. It seems that Justin and I are the most obvious hippies, but James and Ed fall into the similar lines of thought at times and the words that stream out of their mouths are interesting as their varied occupations.

James is a mechanic. Ed is a former special ed teacher, turned kite board instructor. Justin does graphic design. And I am of course, a gypsy. Or sometimes medical professional, sometimes writer, sometimes activist, still finding my way.

Bailey spends the entire day looking like he's been shot. It's just the way he sleeps. He's the thirteen year old Australian Heeler. And there's two cats, one half-dead black&white (Oreo) and one pure ebony (Midnight) who has hissing confused with purring.

I could not have conjured this place up in my imagination.

Moreso, Buxton is on the Outer Banks, which is situated forty miles off the coast of North Carolina. I am on an island in the Sea. In the South.

And so what I have learned is you never know what you need. Or what you're going to get. But you need to be open minded to what's presented to you. And accept it as a gift.

We're in Buxton, at the elbow of the sandbar of the outer banks

 The Outer Banks in relation to the state of NC