The Skeeter Daddle Diaries

When I first arrived on the South End, my biggest concern was finding a job. I’ve always maintained, and still do, that the only thing worse than work is looking for work. The best days of my life are those where I quit or gave notice or just walked off. The worst were the days following when it dawned on me I would now have to go searching for another dead end minimum wage position.

I had driven school buses back in rural Wisconsin and in Seattle and Gomorrah. I’d even driven metros so it seemed like I’d be able to get a job with the local school bus company, which proved true and before long I was chauffeuring children into town and back twice a day. My boss was happy to hire an experienced driver … until I let my hair grow and then a beard and he finally realized I wasn’t the cleancut young man he thought he’d hired. At which point he wanted me gone. Twice a week I was summoned into his office next to our break room to answer charges of driving recklessly, driving drunk,  driving on drugs, driving onto the shoulder, driving toward oncoming traffic, slamming the brakes, kicking kids off the bus miles from home, outrageous accusations that I refused to take seriously, but he wanted me to know were serious offenses if true. I would roll my eyes and he’d fire another accusation purportedly made by the parents of my kids. I suspected they were made by him, but really, what difference did it make? I knew my days were numbered as a professional driver.

We had a bus driver on a Stanwood route who had a reputation as a real ballbuster of a disciplinarian, at least according to him most days in the coffee room after the routes. When he came down with pneumonia, I subbed in for him. Holy Bluebird, the kids on that bus never heard they were spozed to use the seats to sit on. I never saw anything like it. Took me a whole minute or two to pull over and have a short chat with the little attention deficit folks, something to the effect that I might be taking them home for a free vacation day, maybe see if their parents wanted to babysit instead of go to work. After that, we didn’t have much trouble.

On the last day of my short career with the company the supervisor came up to let me know rumor had it there might be a water fight on the bus and I should be watchful. I said I sure would, boss. You better believe he wasn’t going to be my boss much longer.

At a convenient stop that’s now the Visitor Center I pulled my 40 foot long yellow Bluebird over, turned off the motor, set the brakes and turned to my charges. Okay, I said, give it your best shot. We went at it for ten minutes, water pistols and cannons, even a couple of half gallon jugs I brought for the finale. When we’d finished, I opened the front door and water poured out of that bus like a mini-Niagara, cascading down the steps onto the ground. My supervisor asked me when I got back to the barn if there’d been any trouble. No, I said, no trouble at all…. Thanks for the heads-up. That, happily, was the end of my bus driving career. Course, the next week I was scrounging for the next miserable job. Without, needless to say, a good reference.

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My buddy Sam lives in a dilapidated house down by the newly opened Katmandu Kite Shop and no, it isn’t a kite store, it’s a recreational marijuana outlet. Sam’s place sits back in the nettled interior, down a dead end dirt road near the old trout pond that once held trout but got dredged back in the early ‘80’s on one debauched weekend that ended my trout fishing on the South End.

Sam’s been living the bachelor life since his wife left him. She’d grown weary of the power being turned off for non-payment and the back taxes on the place reaching critical mass and since neither of them were willing to work, they played ‘chicken’ with each other, hoping the other would swerve first back into the job market. No way was Sam going back to wage slavery so ultimately Bobbie packed her things, left a short and not-so-sweet note and headed back down to an old boyfriend in Eugene, Oregon who at least worked part-time driving schoolbus.

Sam says he never saw it coming. I believe him, not because all the signs weren’t pointing inexorably toward a dissolution, but because Sam doesn’t have peripheral vision. He would have to hit a sign head-on. In fact, he didn’t find Bobbie’s kiss-off letter until four days after she left. Which isn’t as myopic as you might think. Sam is a Hoarder. His house is like one of those ant farms I had as a kid, nothing but tunnels, stuff stacked along the paths head high, trails leading to the bed or the bathroom or through the kitchen to the stove on one side, the fridge down a different path.

Bobbie kept the piles slightly more passable, but now that she’s gone, the tunnels have narrowed. Nothing much gets thrown away, but stuff apparently is coming in constantly, at least by my observation after not seeing Sam for a few months. The folks who dreamed up ‘planned obsolescence’ never counted on the Sams who keep the broken crap and live in their own midden. Another year, I figure he’ll run out of room completely. I don’t know how many Sams are out there, but I have to wonder if this isn’t why Sears, after a century, is going broke.

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I remember about 40 years ago first coming up to Skagit Valley and seeing the tulip fields. Pretty amazing. Ten years later I drove down Best Road thinking I might catch a view of the fields and maybe lunch in La Conner. It must’ve been two days later when I finally managed to get off Fir Island. For some reason I’ve never liked tulips ever since. Sure got to thank the Chamber of Commerce for that. I’m sure the farmers thank em too.

But I been thinking — how can we turn this public relations machine to our advantage — and I hit on something I think the Skagit Valley Economic Council can sink their sharp little teeth into. Tulip Fuel. Bio-diesel with Hi Octane Petal Power. You drive in the Tulip Station and you can choose from candy apple red to lemon drop yellow. Earth Friendly, Home Grown Flower Power Fuel. The Valley’s sort of where the 60’s hit the Sound, never really ended. So Flower Power won’t be real hard to sell. The Co-op’s next big Expansion will include 10,000 gallon underground tanks and those colorful pumps. High pollen octane for the BMW crowd. Bulb mulch for the Volkswagens.

Oh, I suppose the backups will be sort of long, but spread out longer than 2 weeks, nothing like the Tulip Festival. Plus knowing you’re doing something great for the planet should help. Something that should’ve been done long ago. You know, putting a halt to that Tulip Gridlock.

Petal Power —- think about it!

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Six months until the November elections. Whoo hoo, the fun we’re gonna have. Kari Lake, running for Arizona Senator, suggested that the True Americans should strap on their Glocks and be ready for anything the next few wild months. If that isn’t literally a call to arms, well, nettles don’t sting when you eat em raw. She claims the last elections were rigged, hers in Arizona and Trump’s in America. She also accused Maricopa County of tampering with ballots in 2020. A Republican election official sued her for defamation and oddly enough, Ms. Lake filed a default judgement accepting her own culpability. Probably figured the courts were rigged against her anyway so why not just admit guilt and hope the fines won’t be too egregious.

Meanwhile her hero is on trial in New York, more evidence of swamp monsters trying to destroy everything that’s good and decent in this once great Christian nation, proof enough for her that evil walks among us. While her rally bemoaned the demise of democracy under an illegitimate regime that had stolen the election, they raffled off an assault rifle. Nice optics if you’re looking to incite a civil war.

January 6th was a warmup, I guess, prelude to what’s coming if these folks don’t get their way. If they win the next election, it must have been legitimate. If not, there’s only one possible explanation. Time to turn over the chessboard and grab a Glock. Storm the Bastille! Erect the guillotines! Hang the traitors! Once again, time for some armed tourism at the Capitol. Thanks, Kari, thanks a lot….

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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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I was doing a little supper shopping today at Island Foods up the road. Had my little baby cart half filled with about anything that didn’t seem double-the-price and fell in behind a lady whose overflowing groceries indicated a resident who didn’t worry much about little things like prices or specials or coupon discounts. If she’d been sporting a mink coat, I wouldn’t have expected less.

Tina, the checkout clerk on register #4, the one labeled ‘Utsalady’ as a nod to our island’s sketchy history, was scanning items faster than a TSA agent on meth. She turned to Marie Antoinette and said in her usual cheerful greeting, ‘How you doing today?’ By this time Zsa Zsa had a smart phone in her bejeweled ear and ignored Tina as any High Lady would when an impudent commoner affronted her status. M’lady was now occupied with a conversation about the horrific traffic resulting from a fender bender we’d both apparently passed earlier. It had been a terrible inconvenience to her schedule for Tea Time.

They say time is money, but they don’t say it on the South End. Tina, who lives half a mile north of me in a small ghetto subdivided with a zoning variance that made some commissioner’s friends rich, well, Tina makes minimum wage plus a buck. Time, I seriously doubt, is mostly money to her. It’s a bad back, varicose veins and a wrist brace for her carpal tunnel syndrome that will soon doom her fabulous career. Half the people she checks out never say boo to her. A quarter are on their cellphone. A few are just unfriendly like she was price gouging them.. And the rest don’t see or hear her, she’s just the checkout girl.

Tina has a husband, Billy, used to be a contractor before he crushed a disk in his spine that ended his career. He gets some disability and between that and Tina’s largesse, they make the payments on their double-wide, but barely. It’s a scrape every damn month, but I’ve never heard her complain. She’s glad to have this job. “You have a nice day!” she smiles to Her Majesty who’s still chattering on her cell. Tina turns to me and asks happily, “How’s it going, Skeeter?” If she and I weren’t happily married, I swear to God I’d propose to her on the spot.

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