The Skeeter Daddle Diaries

An old friend of ours recently wrote to say he was trying to test drive some Buddhism. Be Here Now. Be in the moment. Pay a little attention. What my old man called Wake the Hell Up! …when we were what he referred to as ‘glommy’. My response, typically smartass, was something to the effect, what ELSE you gonna do? We’re paying attention to SOMETHING, even if it’s dopey.

You want to update your Facebook, well, I guess that’s your world. You want to watch Fox News all day, I figure you like being pissed off incessantly. Your choice. What I think is the world, your universe, is pretty much those thoughts in your head all the livelong day. Change your thinking and you change the world. Course, you could still get hit by a meteor coming right out of left field and WHAP! Brand new day. Or not.

We mostly live in a virtual world now. The kids already put down earnest money on the mortgage. Us old farts are working on how to forward e-mail jokes, but the computer’s tractor-beam is reeling us in, slow at first, but even if we never notice, accelerating all the time.

On the South End we still prefer the Old World, the one where we let nature and weather have a say in what turns and twists our day takes, the one where we still throw ourselves into a building project or a repair job or an art project or planting a garden, what I think of as the creative process, but is really just an attempt to do more than just Go with the Flow, maybe actually try to bend the river. God isn’t the only dude who believes in creation, not down here, no disrespect. You ask me — and, as usual, I know you didn’t — a good religion should ask for more than just paying attention.

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A couple years ago we stayed with some friends for a couple days in Sedona, Arizona who had a house rented for a month. Sedona is a tony little burg nestled in the red hills beneath a vertiginous climb on its northern border where tourists come in droves in search of palm readers, gorgeous scenery, high end shopping, crystal therapies, woo-woo healers and various dream-catcher shysters. Prices are astronomical, needless to say, so much so that the folks who work minimum wage jobs to service the rich cannot possibly afford rents in the village or nearby environs since most apartments and houses are lodging for the Airbnb vacation industry.

What to do? Well, the good people of Sedona are floating the idea of offering these indentured servants use of a municipal parking lot to sleep in their cars between shifts. This, as you would probably agree, is wildly big hearted of the city fathers. Free parking! Their generosity is overwhelming. Of course, given these bitter partisan times, there are those who cry foul, who worry that their city parking lot will become a tent city that draws the homeless from Phoenix and Yuma, making their idyllic boutiquey village an attractive ghetto for more impoverished workers who couldn’t possibly make a living wage.

Welcome to the Land of the Privileged. Welcome to America. Even here on the South End the possibility of finding affordable rents for those willing to drive long distances to places of employment is daunting. Our food bank in Stanwoodopolis is crowded, the homeless are sleeping in town doorways or in the parks while, maybe you heard, the rich are getting richer. God forbid we tax the corporate wealthy or the billionaire ruling class to narrow the income inequity. After all, we might become them someday and after all our hard work to make that first billion, how unfair to take a bigger slice to use to solve problems like homelessness. No, let them eat cake, these impoverished losers. And in Sedona, let them live in their cars. Just park outside the city limits….

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I got a lot of friends who are O.C.D., obsessive compulsive disorder folks, what we on the South End call Anal. Harsh word, anal, so for our purposes here we’ll stick with OCD. Don’t want to offend anyone, but linguistics can be a two edged knife. My pals suffering from OCD are mostly engineers, but they don’t see their symptoms as suffering. Or a disorder even. In fact, they would argue that the orderliness they demand of themselves is quite possibly the panacea for the problems the rest of us have. Course, they don’t factor in the fact that the problem I have is mostly them.

But let’s be fair. The new psychiatric diagnostic description for myself is: S.L.O.B. Seriously Lacking Obsessive Behavior. Poor toilet training as a kid, I guess. I don’t have to wash my truck every damn week. I don’t wash it every year some years. I accept that the universe is falling apart, what we call entropy down here in the South End Scientific Community. It’s just how things work. They go to hell in a handbasket and if you want to spend your life pushing rocks up a hill like Sisyphus, be my guest. They’re going to make a nice rock wall for yahoos like me when they end up down my way at the bottom.

I don’t make my bed. I don’t clean my windows. I don’t dust my shelves. I don’t edge my lawn. I don’t stack my firewood in nice rows. I don’t organize my files. I don’t follow directions. I don’t even look at the damn directions. I don’t follow a recipe or write one down either. I mean, why? The next batch of bread or homebrew or the next meal will be different, maybe better, maybe worse. C’est la vie, amigo! Routine is the killer, lists are for someone closer to death, order is for the delusional, life is chaos and the sooner you accept it, the better off you’ll be. So yeah, I’m SLOB.

I’m sure there’s a pharmacological cure for my ailment. But hey, I’ve got a pharmacological cure for lots of my ailments, why add one that might have side-effects for the others? In the final analysis, I suppose there’s a nice equilibrium between me and my OCD cronies. They draw in the lines, I draw the rest. When it works, we got a great little homeostatic community. When it doesn’t, well … we’ll find out what happens when gravity hits anti-gravity. Probably sounds like my banjo…..

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I can’t tell you how many people think I ought to retire, figuring maybe I’m mostly washed up, too old, too tired, too burned out. Retirement’s a lot like religions, you want to share your newfound paradise with those who haven’t yet found the Light and the Way. Either that or they feel guilty they called it quits while I toil valiantly on. Okay, they probably think I’m stupid.

Most of my buddies have thrown in the towel. Years ago. It’s hard for them to understand why anybody wouldn’t. I get it. If I’d worked some thankless job 40 hours a week, I’d probably … wait, I did work a thankless job. You try making art and worse, try selling it! Thankless? Don’t even get me started. I could write the Wikipedia article.

Let’s face it — I’m not going to get a pension. Social Security, yeah, but see how much you’d get if most of your wage earning years were less than 3 figures. Not that I’m complaining, I’ll take whatever the returns on my crappy investment in myself were. Serves me right, I guess.

An artist — and this is just an unscientific survey — probably makes way more at the tail end of a career than the early years. Dead artists make even more. Not that it would do this one much good. All those glass panels left down at the studio, sure, quadruple the worth, buy me a Cadillac coffin why don’tcha?

Meanwhile I’m hoping for some returns on work pre-demise, maybe the best earning years, maybe not. Okay, probably not. Nobody went into art thinking to get rich, trust me on that and engrave it on my tombstone. HERE LIES A STARVING ARTIST.
Course, he didn’t die of malnutrition, he died because he refused to retire.

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Maybe it was the long winter and no getaways to relieve the solar deficit on the rain-sodden South End. Or maybe I just needed an excuse to build another structure on the property, some companion piece for the other 25 or so. Could be too it was just boredom, give me something to do while waiting for spring. In any case I decided to build a greenhouse.

Now we’ve had two prior greenhouses. One we dismantled and one we loaded on a flatbed truck and donated to a small neighborhood community garden near the Head. Looked like a mobile Gitmo with those neighbors holding it down on the two mile drive south. Those two greenhouses weren’t mine – they were mizzus’. This one, by god, would be mine and I wouldn’t be giving it away.

Back behind a shed near where the woods starts I had about 50 tempered sliding door glass panels, some from the previous greenhouse, some from the glass roof in the shack, some must’ve been the result of nocturnal matings since I can’t imagine where so many came from. But I had plenty enough to build two or three greenhouses when I move into commercial growing in my golden years. For now, one would suffice.

Sure, I could have constructed one the usual size you see for sale at the local nurseries … but I had bigger plans. Bought some treated lumber, plenty of cedar fencing boards and went to work. Mostly cleaning off years of scum on those stashed glass door panels…. But a week later and voila’ I had myself a 10 foot by 15 foot greenhouse, stained glass door and side panels, stained glass in the back wall, work benches on one side, growing area on the other. I’d barely closed this in when the sun came out on a 50 degree day and the inside temperature hit over 80. For all you global warming deniers, all I can say is go pound sand in the Sahara.

So I realized I needed a way to vent this accumulated heat if a 75 degree day would fry my tomatoes on the vine in this hothouse. Cut a couple of openings in the back and made hinged cedar door panels. We’ll see what happens on a really hot day. For all you Deniers, good luck cutting a vent hole in the earth’s roof. Course by then I won’t need this greenhouse….

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