My neighbor two doors down drives a brown pickup truck. It is not a normal-sized truck, but one that requires stepping up on a running board to get in. There is often mud splashed on the side of the truck. The front license plate has a North Carolina flag with the don’t tread on me snake.
He takes his giant cowboy boots off outside and leaves them on the porch overnight. This is to keep the mud out of the house, but airing them out in the fresh air is a side benefit. An American flag hangs off a pole on the side of his house and gently flaps in the hot summer breeze.
I wave to him in a neighborly way, but I have never stopped to say hello or introduce myself. I don’t even know what we would talk about.