Greybeard
By Kimberly Dark
“People who are eccentric start to attract people who want to be around those who are eccentric. And then they’re joined by people who want to be sure no one paints a chartreuse trim on a lavender house.”
He was the best neighbor I’ve ever had. He passed away last year and I still miss his sunrise wave as he rode past on a rusty old bicycle.
Our conversations were minimal, though sometimes he’d visit, sit on my lanai for a little while and chat. He never came to my yearly solstice party, though I’d always invite him.
“Will you come?” I’d say.
“No,” he’d mutter “but thanks.”
He was the first of my neighbors to tell me about the area when I moved to the Southeast side of Hawaii Island. And he didn’t refer to my house as “Samantha’s house” as nearly everyone in the neighborhood did for years longer than she’d actually lived there. “This place wasn’t for her.” Greybeard said. “So, she left.” Simple as that. He was glad I was in that house — it didn’t always have the nicest folks living there. I was glad too — happy to give the house a good home, so to speak.
Greybeard and I sometimes chatted over a good sunset too. And we said hello at sunrise — me on my lanai in pajamas, he riding slowly past on his bicycle. He offered a wave, or a “good to see you” if I’d just returned home from a work trip. During sunset, we sometimes had whole conversations. Sometimes we just stood quietly and looked at the sky. Often, the light called me out of the house and I’d find him, sitting on his bike in the middle of our block, appreciating the beauty of it all. Sure, people all over the world perch themselves before impressive vistas in order to watch the colors of the sunset, but where I live, it’s not just about watching the colors. There’s something about the light. The sky may or may not turn impressive shades of pink and lavender and gold. That’s pretty — but not the main event. It’s the light itself that filters through the low-hanging clouds giving everything, not just the sky, a golden glow.
One time, I was sitting at the computer working when the light changed and suddenly, nothing seemed more important than walking outside to be rendered golden. And indeed, I met up with four other neighbors out there, each of us just standing in the road in front of our houses. This is not an intentional gathering and no polite neighbor-banter is required. When it happens to you, it’s personal: it’s just between you and the light.
“Nothing seemed more important than walking outside to be rendered golden.” — Tweet this
Because we live on the east side of the island, kind of southeast, the sun doesn’t set over the sea. If I were looking at the sea, the sunset would be happening just over my right shoulder. On the island, everything is oriented in one of two directions, either makai — toward the sea, or mauka — toward the mountain. This directionality always works, in a basic way. At my house, the sunset is mauka, though the golden glow can encompass everything.
The view mauka from my house is of a forested hillside. It’s an Ohia forest near the bottom and thicker rainforest further up. The Ohia and kupu kupu grow sparsely because we live on a lava flow. One road is visible down the side of the mountain and into our subdivision. It’s not paved, but is clearly marked by the electrical poles that give it purpose. This utility road isn’t for public use. A yellow gate at the top of our subdivision marks the intention that no one uses the road without permission. In true Puna style, however, the fence was placed strangely, just to the right of the road itself, so that effectively, it blocks nothing.
I stood staring in the direction of the sunset, everything, including me, bathed in a golden light that doesn’t seem to emanate from the sun. It is ubiquitous. The light, and the strange purple-gold color of the clouds, often resemble a Maxfield Parrish painting — one where a griffin or Pegasus is just about to step out onto a cloud, wearing a watch on a gold chain, it’s orange beak poised to speak.
Greybeard rolled slowly toward me, as I walked toward the corner for a better view. He coasted on his bicycle — one almost never saw Greybeard walking — clad in a t-shirt and some shorts which pulled up around his legs, looked more like a diaper. When it was hot, he wore his long grey hair in a topknot on his head and his long grey beard in a knot, accentuating the Sadhu-look. He was mumbling as he approached. “Hrm, prhm, electrical, hrm, hrm, beautiful, prhm, hrm.” He often mumbled quietly as he rode past, or he’d say, “Hare Krishna.”
“Hi Greybeard.” I said “The light called me outside. Beautiful sunset tonight.” I added.
He nodded a vigorous agreement and re-articulated what I believe he had just mumbled. “It’d be a lot more beautiful is someone hadn’t put all of these electrical lines in my view!”
“Hmm, yes,” I sympathized. “I know you’re not a fan of the electricity.”
It’s unusual for someone not to be a fan of electricity, but I live in an unusual neighborhood. Greybeard lived in the area a while — I’m not sure how long, but long enough to have known every inhabitant of my house. He was definitely there before electricity came in the late 1990s. He and a handful of other neighbors were not pleased by the prospect of electricity coming to the Seaview community. They protested the arrival of the Hawaii Electric Light Company and they lost. To hear some tell it, the protest was not so peaceful. Electrical poles, installed one day, would be sawed down by the time the workers arrived the following day. Of course, some residents still don’t have electricity — no lines ran to Greybeard’s property, that’s for sure. Some people operate their homes on solar or wind power, or they simply don’t use things that light-up, heat-up or get cold.
“There’s so much beauty in the quiet moments.” — Tweet this
Greybeard’s home was pretty minimal anyway. I never visited his place, past the driveway, but my son was there. He stopped by one day to deliver a can of WD40 that Greybeard requested after fixing Caleb’s bicycle. When I asked if I could pay him, Greybeard responded with a brusque shake of his head, “No.” And then he added “But if you can pick me up a can of WD40, that’d be great.” I tend to forget, until reminded, that money isn’t actually worth anything. It’s what you can get with the money that’s worthwhile. And if a person doesn’t drive, as Greybeard doesn’t, simply asking for what you need might be the better option.
“He’s got it hooked up.” Caleb nodded after returning from delivering the WD40. “Pretty comfortable and the bed’s kind of hidden.” He commented on Greybeard’s partially open-air living arrangement. His lot was nicely landscaped and his home wasn’t too visible from the street. Only the tidiness called attention to the lot not being vacant. I heard Greybeard call out one night to a car with its headlights fixed on his lot. “Turn off that light! You don’t see me shining lights into your house, do you?!”
Greybeard was a good neighbor — the best I’ve ever had. He was the kind of guy you want in a community — regardless of his mono-moniker and mumbling. Or perhaps because of it. Diligent, concerned difference is a gift. He offered a free bicycle tune-up clinic at the Saturday farmer’s market down the street, and he served on our community association board. I feel certain he heard me and my music and conversations far more often than I heard from him. He helped maintain our community park and the free book and clothing exchange too. He recycled and didn’t use what he didn’t need.
And he enjoyed a nice sunset — even with the presence of electrical lines. The changes in the light are so subtle — you can’t really see them. But with a little time, standing still, just looking around, things change. It gets darker and the miracle subsides. That’s how a neighborhood changes, too. Little by little. People who are eccentric start to attract people who want to be around those who are eccentric. And then they’re joined by people who want to be sure no one paints a chartreuse trim on a lavender house. I have redoubled my commitment to diligent difference since Greybeard’s passing. I hope to contribute even a fraction of what he did to our community.
I’m glad Greybeard died peacefully in his sleep in a home he loved. And I’m glad he was my neighbor, and that I knew him. I cherish every sunset where we stood silently watching, taking in the changes. There’s so much beauty in the quiet moments. We stood transfixed until the light released us back to our mortal tasks.
Kimberly Dark is a writer, sociologist and raconteur working to reveal the hidden architecture of everyday life, one clever story, poem and essay at a time. Learn more at www.kimberlydark.com.
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