The Skeeter Daddle Diaries

The ill-fated Nettle Festival was conceived as the kick-off to Rev. Ralph Fisher’s tent revival for the Little Church of the Ravine. THE END IS NEAR, his readerboard sign announced months ahead of the scheduled event, THE SOUTH END REVIVAL IS COMING! The congregation might have known what was slouching toward us, but the rest of us down here were bemused or amused, depending on our degree of what the good reverend referred to as ‘heathenism’. The South End was in mighty need of missionary work itself, he was fond of preaching, but their puny tithing went instead to saving the natives of New Guinea and east Africa. I figure they were easier to convert than us locals who were fairly content to wallow in our puddles of iniquity.

The Nettle Festival itself wasn’t such a bad idea. In fact, the Tyee Store tried to revive it a few intervening years after what was referred to as ‘the tragedy’. But even today there are members of the congregation who break into sobs over their coffees when mention is made. And this is 35 years after ‘the tragedy.’ I speak of it now in hushed tones and never around Mildred’s family who still live down the road. Some events in this mean old world aren’t meant for sarcasm or ridicule, although you would have to admit, even the pious among you, that Rev. Ralph overdid it with the Nettle Maze, his Labyrinth of Itching Hell.

Stigmata wipe-off tattoos are one thing, but the Nettle Maze crossed the line. By the weekend of the Revival, the Little Church had erected a tent worthy of Ringling Brothers. Churches from as far away as Sedro-Wooley and Darrington had come in converted school buses and rickety vans, hauling the Believers and their children from far and wide for a day of righteous fun and old time religion. Pastor Philip of Pentecostal fame arrived the night before from his circuit riding, prayed with Rev. Ralph and his long-suffering wife Mildred and slept the peaceful sleep of the Godly before that morning’s first sermon of fire and brimstone-laden admonitions blistered the varnish off the old pulpit.

By afternoon the sun came out like a prophecy and the festival cranked up its volume. Chainsaw carvers sent cedar chips flying and the face of Jesus appeared in chiseled log sculpture. Stigmata wash-off tattoos made the teenager giggle, 666’s on foreheads being by far the favorite of the boys. Glossalalia crossword puzzles didn’t work out so well, but the Biblical action figures of Moses in combat with John the Baptist and Jesus himself down by the firepit were a huge hit with the younger kids.

And of course there was the Nettle Maze. The Labyrinth of Itching Hell itself! Half an acre of loops and turns and dead ends so intricate not even Jimmy Randall, the church caretaker who’d carved the trails over the past three weeks, starting when the plants were three feet tall and he could see over them, could navigate safely. Now, of course, they were higher than the tallest man’s head and impossible to survey beyond the impenetrable wall of stinging stalks that held each entrant locked into the maze. Dozens were wandering hopelessly lost in there when a foul wind came up like the cold breath of Beelzebub himself, the one Pastor Philip of the Pentecost had predicted only half an hour earlier in fiery prose. Hell had come to the South End or surely would arrive soon, the unsuspecting crowd had been informed and sure enough, a mighty howl rose from the ravine like the thousand laments of the Lost. The sun blotted out behind dark and treacherous clouds and that cold wind became a tempest and the circus tent became a shaking thing, alive and monstrous, tearing at its ropes, sending one and all running for the safety of the field before the cords tore loose and the canvas tent set sail like an ungodly wing, flapping into the distance before it shrouded the chapel itself and caught on the belfry where it ripped itself to pieces on the steeple. Torn asunder, Rev. Ralph would tell of it for years. Torn asunder!

But those inside the Maze had nowhere to turn. Children and adults alike wheeled and fled, down paths that went nowhere, flayed by the wind-whipped stalks of stinging death. Well, not death, literally, but who knows what went through those terrified minds besotted with brimstone stories? Their screams reached the field beyond, but what could we outsiders do except listen in horror. One by one the survivors stumbled out into the raging storm, rashes covering their faces and hands, tears streaming down their pockmarked faces. The Little Chapel opened its double doors to lead these blinded sheep inside, to calm them and offer balm, to offer shelter from the storm. Pastor Philip was in 7th Heaven, finding in the calamity further proof of the Scriptures. He was in fine form, everyone agreed later.

But it was later Rev. Ralph realized Mildred was missing. He went from person to person asking if they’d seen Mildred. No one had. A boy sporting 666 on his forehead said he’d seen her go in the Maze. “Are you sure,” the congregation cried, nearly in unison. He was certain. Rev. Ralph led the search party. The wind had abated nearly as quickly as it had come up. Down at the Labyrinth the nettles had been laid down in haphazard rows as if the horn of Jericho had blown and there, in the exact center, stood Mildred, stone still, a strange statue of a woman staring into the sky, not moving, not crying out, just frozen in time and space. Between Heaven and Hell, Pastor Philip would say more than a few times in the following days. Only Rev. Ralph dared approach and he did so with the utmost trepidation as everyone watched in dread.

Mildred was never the same. Some say she wasn’t quite right to begin with, but that’s uncharitable. She spoke in tongues a day later. Unintelligible garble, strange utterances, ugly curses. But I’ve never heard that from anyone who was actually there. I do know it’s hard to be with her even now. She doesn’t actually engage and looks right through you while she perpetually scratches at her arms. It may be she’s lost forever in that maze. It may even be, as the Bible thumping Pastor Philip would say, we’re everyone of us lost in that maze.

Well, buckaroos, it’s that time once again when the call of the cacti beckons this old claimjumper and the urge to hightail it down to the land of sidewinders and scorpions, gila monsters and Republicans becomes too strong to ignore. So I’m packing my kit and heading down to Arizona for a little road tripping on the red dirt backroad where only the border patrols know my name.

I don’t know Arizona much and mercifully the reverse is true. Back in the ‘70’s I plowed through and I wasn’t much impressed. But let’s be honest, we both must’ve mellowed by now and I’m willing to give the state another chance. I bet that rude waitress at the Flagstaff truck stop is a great grandma by now, maybe votes Democratic, collects her Social Security and dreams of jackalopes on the high prairie, not illegal immigrants. She doesn’t remember the longhaired hippie kid forty years ago. Although … I remember her.

Arizona’s like the South for me. Should’ve let it go back in the 1860’s and Arizona, we could still cut Mexico a deal, throw in the Alamo too for a few pesos, good riddance. I’m going down to reconnoiteur, not do a market analysis. I’m going to try my best to avoid Phoenix and the Snowbird Trailer Parks. Probably won’t go near the border, but … Tucson looks interesting and a buddy’s moving down by Bisbee.

Mostly I want to see the state top to bottom, left to right, up and down, in and out. Gives you a chance to take a breather . You deserve it — I know, I’m a blabbermouth and a chatterbox. Enjoy the peace and quiet, walk the beach, go down to the park. I’ll be back, tanned and rested. Or … detained and arrested. Either way, I’ll report back.

I don’t need to tell you Christmas started a little early this year. I know, it does every year. Apparently there’s no need to wait til we’ve digested half a ton of turkey to move on to the next holiday, just step right off from overeating to overconsuming. If you’re worried about a so-called war on Christmas, I got some real good news for you: Santa is winning! And so, apparently, are the retailers and so are the Chinese.

Even on the Scroogish South End the muzak droning Bing Crosby chestnuts has become a tinselly tinnitus. Folks leave their Christmas lights up 365 days now, why bother crawling up a precarious ladder to pull the shack decoration down for the one month we aren’t counting down the day til the credit card bills hit JACKPOT?

Call me a curmeudgeon, label me a Grinch and hit me on the head with Aunt Pearl’s fruitcake, but our holiday strategy is we hightail it off the South End when Christmas gets close. Nowadays we grab a few friends who don’t have kids or family that necessitate a 2nd mortgage to fill a tree with presents and we head to places so bleak, so impoverished, so beaten down that they don’t bother with lights or tinsel or commercial trappings. Used to be we could escape the hoopla down here, but not anymore. Naw, you have to be farther off the beaten path to escape the holiday onslaught than Camano Island, even the South End.

I’d tell you where we exile ourselves, but then half of you would follow us off to serenity and a quiet holiday devoid of WalMarts and strip mall outlets. No offense, we’re sure not trying to wage war on Christmas. And we sure don’t want to collapse the economy. We only want to celebrate Christmas the way it once was, with friends and good cheer. Just not all year long.