The Skeeter Daddle Diaries

In 1492 Columbus sailed the ocean blue. I still remember that bit of ditty from 3rd grade. Nina, the something, Pinta maybe?, the Santa Maria. Three ships sailing into history in search of Asia, the long route, the wrong route. No doubt they loved finding gold instead of spices. And of course a New World to explore, conquer and repopulate. In return for the native’s hospitality they brought microbes the indigenous folks had never been exposed to and so, without the necessity of major battles, the Spaniards decimated the Mayan, the Aztec and the Incan civilizations with brand new diseases. Smallpox for gold goblets. Black fever for slaves.

I suppose when we earthlings go to distant planets we’ll be peaceful, respectful, good neighborly, remembering that Columbus Day is just another Subjugation Day for the unfortunates who get discovered. Mars Rover Day will get replaced with a more politically correct moniker for its historic moment. Indigenous Martian Day really doesn’t work for me, but I won’t be around anyway, call it whatever you want.

Columbus Day either. Dump the whole holiday for all I care. Just don’t rebrand it. Us liberals really do value political correctness carried to the extremes. And so I can’t wait to hear the folks who vociferously decry any political correctness as a limit on their freedom of speech. They’re gonna howl that we’ve waged war on poor Christopher the way we wage war on their Christian holidays. And their Star Spangled Banner. And their Confederate traitor statues. Is NOTHING sacred?

Can’t we just learn to love one another even if they were slave traders and warmongers? Can’t we simply celebrate the holidays of the Judeo Christians and skip the minorities? So okay, we drop Christmas but we don’t call it Islam Alternative Day. And if we drop Columbus Conquers the Americas Day, let’s just find a new one somewhere in October to make a federal holiday. I like Halloween, good national fun and a money mojo for the candy and costume industry. Nobody made a dime on Columbus Day anyway and I notice the stock market doesn’t bother to celebrate it. What kind of holiday is it that can’t be monetized? Not a true American one, that’s for sure.

Let’s talk guns! I’m betting most of my card carrying liberal pals, guys like Two Toke Tom, will never in a dozen lifetimes understand why anyone would own a gun, much less a couple of dozen or more. Or 36 like the killer in Vegas last week who killed 58 people and wounded hundreds more…. They want gun control. Half would like guns banned outright. Tom would, for sure.

I had a neighbor who didn’t like me much (I know, hard to believe!) who announced, apropos of nada, that he always carried a pistol and kept a loaded one by his bed. Just in case I was contemplating a late night break-in burglary. When I asked why he ‘packed’ during the day, he said dogs. Packs of dogs. The .38 was dog spray for he-men. I hate to extrapolate from one case study, but my sense is people keep guns out of fear. Dogs, burglars, gays, rapists, Muslims, the Chinese Mafia. You laugh maybe at the Chinese Mafia but I have a pal who, devout Christian that he is, struggled mightily with whether to buy a gun for protection. “Protection from what?” I asked. “The island is pretty much violence free.” He said gangs of the Chinese Mafia. Them and the Muslim Caliphate.

It’s hard to argue against folks’ fears. They’re real even if the basis isn’t. TV news is half reportage of violence. Movies and TV and video games are full to the cerebellum with mayhem. The cities are war zones, gangs rule entire neighborhoods, drive-by shootings are commonplace —— or so we believe. There’s talk of endtimes, societal breakdown, dystopia and riots in the streets. One gun isn’t gonna do it!! Not when the zombie apocalypse or the Chinese Mafia roll into the pastoral South End.

My Christian buddy decided not to arm himself. No killing, the Bible admonished and he was pretty certain he’d be going to heaven if the Mafia did kill him. My neighbor, though, shot himself in the head. Any way you parse it, that’s tough gun control, one that Two Toke might not endorse, but I say it’s a good start. And no, I didn’t pry the gun out of his cold dead hands. Let’s have a modicum of respect for the dearly departed.

I have a sequoia I planted below our house, down where the hill levels out into a ravine. I planted it as a seedling instead of buying a wedding ring for myself since I really dislike a ring. At least one on my finger. Ten years later we built the house up on that hill and from a second story perch I’ve been watching it reach up over the woodshop below, then slowly rise to the new house’s level, go beyond the height of the barn across the ravine and above our own house.

I have to step forward into the window now to see its top. At 35 years old it’s still pretty much a baby so far as a sequoia goes. On our anniversary Karen and I wrapped our arms around its trunk and barely locked hands. With any luck it’ll outlive me by, oh, 500 years or so. In my own lifetime, with a little luck, it’ll be the biggest tree on the place, which is no mean accomplishment considering the five redwoods we planted from seed, a few humongous big leaf maples, some second growth firs and one cedar that, for now, holds the title at a circumference of 13 feet and must be the oldest tree by far on our seven acres.

I’d like to think when we no longer prowl this property, it’ll be a forest again, not some logged off scabwoods the way it was when we first arrived. The field that once grew alfalfa for our goats is now a small arboretum of oaks and maples and beeches, rhododendrons twice as high as us, walnuts and hickories, a carpet of shamrocks and periwinkle growing underneath.

We are definitely shaped by our surroundings, I know that much. And it’s no small pleasure to return the favor by shaping them. The orchards, the flower gardens, the riot of 150 rhodies all blooming over a slowly unfolding spring, the vegetable gardens, the shrubs, the back woods —- all of this becoming as much a part of us as we became part of it. If you were to ask if I was an environmentalist, I would have to say no, probably not. I’m mostly just part of the environment.

I read a letter to the editor recently from a newly minted graduate of our school system railing about that same school system as mostly purveyors of communist propaganda. It forced him to learn about Islam, he complained, but didn’t teach the Bible. It taught him Egyptian history but never, not once, mentioned Moses parting the Red Sea. Apparently his science teachers wouldn’t touch it either, afraid, probably it would subvert the shaky foundations of rationalism.

I’ve lived here long enough to remember when those commies used to bring in Creationist speakers and when evolution was fairly taboo, days our Graduate would like to bring back. Religion, I’ve learned the hard way, is a tough subject to tiptoe around. Any religion. Just not an amusing topic for the True Believer. So mostly I just pick a safer target and hope not too many toes are stepped on.

But I hafta say, in a country that vents mightily about the Taliban or extreme Muslimism, it is troubling to realize the folks who hate the false gods and beliefs of others would gladly set up their own religious schools and maybe make 2nd class citizens of their Jewish classmates or their Sikh or Hindu or B’hai or Buddhist or Catholic or …. well, anybody but their particular sect. They want freedom of religion all right. Theirs, not yours.

I wish religion WAS the opiate of the masses, but sadly, it’s the testosterone. Maybe if we didn’t have religious beliefs to fight about, we’d wage wars over scientific dogma instead. The Big Bangers vs. the Multi-Dimensionalists. Eat this theory, blasphemer!!

Facts, though, don’t seem to matter, just fervent faith. I can’t prove it … so what? I believe it so it’s true. Obama’s a Muslim, evolution is a fraud, the moon landing was hoax, God is a Christian, the universe sits on the back of a tortoise, aliens are among us, the world banking system is controlled by Zionists, the Stanwoodopolis school system is a communist conspiracy.

It’s nice to know that our taxes have done a fine job educating our children. I think they’ll be more than ready to take their place in society. Sometimes, honest to your God, even on the South End, there’s no place to hide from these people.

If the blog site here goes dark the next few days, it’s because we’re in transit and I’m grappling with technical difficulties. As usual. Please standby. Our technicians will be working on the problem. Yesterday I punched something on my brother’s Apple and locked the thing up, core to peel. Took the mizzus (the technician) only a few minutes after I’d spent two hours. Then the wireless keyboard pooped out. I changed the batteries, tried to work through the control system then finally gave it to her while I went over to my old man’s house. He’s got the same computer, same keyboard and lo and behold, it didn’t work either.

Course, I figured it was the network probably down for repairs or something, but accidentally discovered the POWER BUTTON ingeniously hidden in the side of the keyboard. I’d inadvertently hit both to the OFF position. Ho ho, mystery solved. And only an hour or two lost.

Anyway, we’re leaving the comfort zone of working computers now, heading toward Lake Superior where the natives probably have never heard of Twitter or Apple or television. If by chance they have and if I can barter some time from them, maybe I’ll get word out through this site that we’re doing fine, that the ice hasn’t locked us in yet, that winter hasn’t descended on the upper latitudes. If not, no doubt we’ll have a saga to share later in the spring when the floes break up. Meantime, try to avoid the news, faux or real. You surely got better things to do….

I’m learning all sorts of things in my old age, not by choice really, mostly out of necessity. Lots of my stuff is falling apart and has gone to the Dark Place where no amount of cursing or kicking will bring it back to workable condition. I dismantled my computer last week, pulled out little connectors, changed a battery, beat on it with a fist, but it really didn’t want to power back up again after I’d turned it off when we left for a vacation trip. Lesson learned. The buggers want to be awake. They don’t need sleep and they don’t dream. Mark one up for the machines.

My table saw, however, died a smoky death in mid-cut. Slowed down, made a strange garbled cry of protest, then blew the shop fuses. It wanted to sleep forever. Which, after some amount of troubleshooting, I decided it deserved a proper burial. But not before a few well aimed kicks to its cheap aluminum shroud. Good riddance. I had a backup saw ready to go. Course, it needed to be completely assembled with parts cannibalized from previous incarnations. Only took most of a day, but in the end, mark one up for us humans. So what if it’ll probably run for only a short time before it too joins the growing junkpile out back.

Next day, the refrigerator decided to stop chillin. I know, it seemed like a conspiracy to me too. Revenge of the Machines, soon to be a major motion picture. You know, if the TV will still play DVD’s. I did what any modern repairman would do in these days of internet research — I went straight to Google. Where I learned that 21st century refrigerators (ours is a 20th century model) have a fan in the freezer compartment that pushes cold air down into the fridge area and sure enough, I had blocked that port with frozen goods enough to raise the temperature below by 20 degrees. Only took a few hours to figure all this out, simple fix. We’ll call this one a draw.

Scroungers, Packrats and Hoarders

Clyde stopped by our place yesterday, wanted to know if I wanted some wood flooring. Clyde’s notorious for scrounging lumber — beams, 2×4’s, plywood, chopped off rafters and joists full of nails — he takes it all, he and his partner Fred. They’re true South Enders, no building parts are too unworthy for future projects. No oddly shaped root or burled tree trunk couldn’t be imagined as a trellis or a doorway or a garden gate. Their greenhouse/apartment is a testament to homesteader ingenuity, from the recycled plumbing for a radiant heat floor to the gnarly limbs of a cedar tree that frame a window made from sliding glass door panels. The roof is raftered with bridge beams and salvaged lumber, all covered with earth and plantings, a green ecosystem.

So when Clyde asks if I want some wood flooring, red lights go off and a siren shrieks deep down in my hippocampus. “You don’t want it yourself?” I ask, meaning, what’s wrong with this flooring if you boyz are turning it down? Clyde avows how they don’t need flooring and anyway, it’s all mismatched remnants. Like they don’t have mismatched remnants from one end of their property to the next??? “Use em for furniture,” I advise. “I took my leftovers and made cabinets and bookcases, banjos, hell, it’s hardwood.”

“We’re jammed up,” Clyde says sadly. “Stuff we got now is getting powder post beetles. We couldn’t use it all in the rest of our lifetimes.” Which is true! They’re beyond Scroungers now, heading toward Hoarders. It’s a fine line, I know, and only a packrat like myself who’s scrounged most of his life is qualified to define the slip from Collector to Psychopathology. Clyde, I diagnosed, had stepped back from the Abyss. Enough was finally enough. Clutter was one thing, tunnels to the kitchen and bathroom quite another.

No mas! There comes a time when a sane man knows implicitly to STOP. Before it’s too late. Before madness descends like a dark curtain blotting light and reason.

Today I picked up 10 boxes of hardwood flooring, enough to lift the front end of my truck. No, I don’t really need flooring. But, you never know, right? Now if I can just figure out where to store all this wood until I need it….

Early this morning I got a phone call. Lately all my calls are from charitable organizations asking for help. I figure mostly they’re legit, but how would anyone know? Breast Cancer Societies, Police Benevolence, Fire Fighter Funds, Veteran’s Organizations, environmental groups, you name it, they’re asking for donations. Volunteers man the phones, cold calls, too much competition with hurricane and earthquake relief, long day, I bet.

My early bird caller today greeted me with “Hi, Grandpa, how you doin’?”, no doubt soliciting for the Lost Grandson Society. I said I was doin’ fine, how bout yerself? Well, my heretofore unknown grandkid wasn’t doing all that well, he confessed in a strangled voice conveying pain and anguish aplenty. He’d been at a wedding last night, probably a relative of ours I never heard of, and he’d been pulled over by the police and well one thing led to another, he’d had a few drinks but he wasn’t drunk, he assured me, try explaining that to the cops and so, here he was, in jail, in trouble and who could he turn to for bail but his old gramps?

“Can you help me, Grandpa?” he asked pitifully, muffling a sob. The kid was good, I’ll give him that much. “Blood’s thicker than water, Boy,” I replied and he asked me to write down his case number and the name of his public defender who I could wire the money to. By then I’d tired of the charade and hung up. Two minutes later his court appointed attorney called me back.

“You little low-life creep. What rock do you live under?” Which prompted an immediate click, then on to the next phone number on the list. I’ve been botherd by this all day. One call in a hundred they must get a poor Alzheimer person, an elderly man or woman with a good heart who can’t recall their kids’ names now much less their grandkids’, who might want to help Little Billy who’s stuck in a jailcell, only asking for $1000 for bail.

It’s a cruel enough world without filling the kiddlie pools with reptiles like these. I understand the folks who prey on the greedy with Nigerian money scams, but not the ones who feed on kind and generous hearts. My next grandkid, I hope to hell I do a better job raising him….

I guess if you’re not the kind of leader who’s interested in history, you might have missed the Katrina debacle. Day after day, week after week of video showing the victims of that hurricane struggling to put their lives back together, struggling to survive, calling out for help back in the swamps. The nation got a dose of what reality was like down in the delta so that when President Bush flew in and shook the hand of his Disaster-in-Chief, telling him what a great job he was doing, the country was not only shocked, they were pissed off.

Trump flew into Puerto Rico without reviewing the film clips of Katrina’s aftermath. As usual his administration was doing a great job, fantastic job. But the trouble is all those lying journalists down there shooting footage of the carnage. Folks without food or water or medical care. Humanitarian shipments sitting idle at the docks with no diesel to run the trucks to deliver all those items. No truck drivers. No open roads. No electrical grid. No communication lines. No clue. The mayor of San Juan decried the President’s characterization of the clean-up as a Good News Story. “Dammit,” she said, “this is not a good news story, this a people are dying story.”

The President, true to form, attacked the messenger, saying the mayor expected everything to be done for Puerto Rico when they should be doing it themselves. Even George Bush didn’t make the mistake of telling Louisiana to get off their swamp cracker Cajun butts and suck it up. But he still paid a huge price in popularity for an apparent lack of conservative compassion. Folks in this country can be hard hearted, but video of half naked kids drinking polluted water from a filthy creek touch a chord. They expect some help from the damn government, not criticism the victims aren’t grabbing their own bootstraps.

You ignore history at your peril, that’s for sure. Tweet all you want about those crybaby NFL players, but the evening news loves a video of devastation and misery even more than a hot controversy revolving around the flag and the anthem. We aren’t so callous yet that we blame the victims for a Category 5 hurricane. Those people on the 6 o’clock news aren’t faux and they need some help. My advice to the President, send in the Marines, send in the Navy, send in some helicopters, send in whatever it takes. If you don’t, no sunny press conference about the great job the administration is doing is going to save the nation of Puerto Rico. Or you.

I suppose if I was sitting in the Oval Office looking at the cluttered Inbox of crisis after crisis, wondering which one I should tackle first, the Korean nuclear threat or maybe the devastation from Hurricane Irma in Puerto Rico, the flooding in Houston or the troop buildup in Afghanistan, the repeal and replace debate of Obamacare or the budget battle and debt ceiling, I would have a hard time too. One of the tenets of the 7 traits of successful South Enders —
I’ll mention only the first on the list: START THE DAY BEFORE NOON
At least on work days. The other five days, sleep in. You earned it. —

means that obviously time management and prioritization is of critical importance. Let’s face it, the world and national problems are complex and many. You have personal issues as well, investigations into your financial dealings, investigations into your involvement with the Russians, investigations into possible obstruction of justice. Decisions decisions decisions and so little time! Impeachment is right around the corner, the Rocket Man has his finger on the nuclear trigger, hurricanes and earthquakes are becoming more common than your tweets. What’s a busy guy to do?

Prioritize! Take them one at a time! Don’t tackle too much! Which is why it makes sense to attack the NFL and those ‘sons-of-bitches’ who refuse to stand at attention while the National Anthem is being played. Good choice, Mr. President!! Good choice. Tomorrow, pick another. Hillary! Sure, Hillary’s a safe bet. Benghazi! E-mails! Voter fraud even though she lost! That’s two days covered and five days of well-deserved rest. You deserve it, sir, you’ve worked hard.