The Skeeter Daddle Diaries

I was chatting it up over the fence with a couple of my neighbors when one of their cellphones set off in a cute and personalized ringtone, actually the same one my brother has, sounds like a flying saucer landing in a 1950’s sci-fi movie. Of course he took the call, I guess figuring the answering machine voicemail function might not work. My guess: it never gets used. The call was from his mizzus wondering where he had got off to now.

“Right here in the backyard with Skeeter and Ralph,” I heard him say. Ralph, both of us waiting for Barry to finish up, pulled out his own cell and fiddled with it, maybe checking to see what our weather was. “I-phone 7,” he said proudly, like I’d done research on what phones are what. “Yours?” he asked.

“My what?” I answered and Barry joined back in now that his whereabouts were no longer the mizzus’ concern.

“Cellphone,” Ralph said. I told him I didn’t have one. “Seriously?” he asked, fairly new to the neighborhood, not yet tuned into the Time Warp across the highway where I lived in the early 20th Century. “How do you talk to anyone?”

“Like we’re doing now,” I told him. He looked at me mistrustfully, the way an urbanite might look at a hayseed, not certain his leg wasn’t being pulled by the local yokel. It’s ten years now since Apple introduced the I-phone. Ten short years and now I’m a hopeless anachronism, a cave man in New York. “When I first came here we had a party line,” I informed Ralph and Barry too.

“My god,” Barry said, “how long have you been here?”

I wanted to say 1915, phones just invented, but I worried they might believe me. Or that I might shock them with tales of outhouses and no TV, horror stories of shack life circa 1977 when I left civilization to come out to this backwash cul-de-sac of the American Dream. But now it was Ralph’s phone ringing. “I gotta take this,” he explained unapologetically, answering it on the first ring.

“And I gotta go,” I replied and drifted back across the highway that separates us into a now distant past, a small figure moving into the fogbanks of a history soon to be forgotten completely, far far from cell range.

Eight guys. Count em. Eight. Eight men own more wealth on this planet than 3.6 billion of the bottom half of Earth’s population. Think about that for more than a few seconds. I don’t know about you, but I find it sort of staggering. Even though we have Bill Gates in the area. And Paul Allen. And Jeff Bezos. And more than just a few dot.com millionaires dotting the landscape. So it’s not a surprise that we have wealth inequity in this country. We drive by the ragged tents under Seattle’s freeway and see the folks on the other end of the scale. Probably just lazier than those eight Captains of Industry. Or dumber. Or more interested in drugs. Some good reason so no point in trying to figure out a more equitable system.

Down at the Diner the other day, Lotto Larry was telling us what he planned to do with his winnings if he ever won the Big One. Sure wasn’t going to give it to the poor or the hungry, you can bet. No, he plans for a house in Hawaii, swimming pool, housecleaners, BMW sports car, a fully stocked bar in the lanai, hot tubs … hell, he could — and did — go on for half an hour and three refills of coffee from Brenda. “Going to hire a high price accountant to cut down on the upper bracket taxes I’d probably owe. Figure out some shelters.”

“What did Trump say,” Brenda asked, pouring another round in between the cruises to the Bahamas and the condo in San Francisco, “only the stupid pay their taxes?”

Larry couldn’t have agreed more. “That’s why, sweetheart, the rich get richer,” he intoned, slopping cream into his cup and four packs of sugar. Brenda shook her head sadly. “Can’t wait to see what kind of tips you’ll give then,” she muttered, walking off. Larry was the worst tipper among us and that says a lot. Sometimes, if he didn’t have spare change in his pocket, he’d leave the lint.

Bobby across the table pulled the toothpick out of his mouth and shook his head too. Bobby lived in the same neighborhood as Larry, two doors down, 4000 square foot houses, travel trailers in the high garage, vacation lots down in Green Valley, Arizona where they both spent part of the winters. Neither knew where Brenda lived, down in the trailer court past Tyee Store, trying to support two kids after her divorce. “Jeez, Larry,” Bobby said, “you don’t have to rub it in, buddy.”

Larry, ever the charitable one, chuckled and added, “And the poor get poorer.” Bobby groaned and the rest of us 1 %’ers shook our heads. I did notice, though, we all left a little larger tip than usual. Well, except for Larry.

Why the Rich Get Richer …

I heard a study recently that said the poor are more charitable than the rich. On average they give almost twice as much of their income percentage-wise to those in need than their wealthier brethren. They also volunteer more for charities and non profits, service groups and outreach programs. Basically, if my sociology statistical studies are still in semi-working order, this proves, not quite conclusively but damn close, the South End is way more philanthropic than our neighbors up yonder ensconced behind their key carded gated communities.
I had a friend tell me in all seriousness awhile back (in regard to my bemusement over her financial plight at the time) that a million dollars just wasn’t what it used to be. What exactly do you say to a pronouncement like that? Do you work out the math of inflation vs. income? Do you shrug your overburdened shoulders and just agree? Or do you take pity and offer up a loan …. you know, to get her by until that devalued million dollars returns to its rightful place in the economy?
These are tough times. Especially, I guess, for the rich. Or, more aptly, the folks who no longer count themselves among the Gatsbys of Camano. Their stocks have slipped, the value of their two homes has dropped, their retirement funds seem inadequate now, even their hedge fund broker refuses to return their frantic calls — that vast chasm between Us and Them looks like a ditch, not a Grand Canyon. And if sacrifices must be made — and believe me, they must — a little less giving to the needy is definitely the order of the day.
Meanwhile, down here on the Lower Tiers, we kind of see we’re all in this together. So we still donate, we still volunteer and we still give. We don’t have much, but it never seemed too little somehow. Even though a hundred dollars isn’t what it used to be.

Retirement’s a touchy subject down at the Diner. The Flatheads, those vintage car guyz, they found a way to make retirement work, just build a garage, heat the damn thing and stay out there dawn to dusk or even later working on their latest ‘restoration’. They could give seminars in Golden Year Living if they had that kind of ambition, but like I said, they’re retired fellows. Like myself for the most part.

No, it’s the poor sap who thought that once he’d accumulated his pension nest egg, he’d be set. Kick back, putter around the house in his sweatpants all day, maybe give the mizzus advice on housekeeping and cooking, sit in the car while she went grocery shopping, help her balance the checkbook finally. The Good Life. Well, for him….

Quiet Billy is going on 65. The boyz at the Diner catch him on his lunch break where he rolls in daily for his usual, grilled cheese on rye, side of potato salad, cup of whatever soup they serve that day, cup of coffee, one refill. Billy manages the South End Water Association, monitors the pumps and tanks up the hill from Windyrear Realty, takes care of line breaks in the mains, monitors the readings for monthly usage. Retirement could be in his future, but Billy doesn’t think of that as an option. He thinks of that as a living burning Hell.

A few months ago Quiet Billy came down with the flu. Laid him down hard and beat on him with coughing fits, body chills, sweat fevers, headache and the urge to die. His mizzus, Betty Lou, not the warmest of women on her good days, shook her head at Billy lounging around under a blanket by the third day and insisted he ‘man up’ and get his butt back to work, he was driving her crazy. She had better things to do than serve him oatmeal gruel and listen to his constant coughing. “Die if you’re going to die, but do it quick or get back to work. I haven’t got time for this nursey nursey stuff.”

Billy had caught the flu from Betty Lou who had taken two weeks sick leave and expected him to wait hand and foot on her until she had recovered. Compassion, apparently, wasn’t high on Betty Lou’s list. Or reciprocity. If Quiet Billy had ever entertained fantasies of a contemplative retirement, puttering around the house, plunking on his favorite guitar half the day, that week with the swine flu or whatever killer crud he had, well, that pretty picture got folded, spindled and crumpled into a wad. He told me over the last of his potato salad one mournful lunch that he wanted to work until the grave. The sad part of that, the really sad part I mean, is Billy hates his job.

While I was cutting glass in the shack for a stained glass project, I was listening to a woman who won the McArthur ‘genius’ award for her theory on ‘grit. I think maybe by that she means stick-to-it-ness, what we South Enders call stubborn as a mule. If mules and jackasses are ever considered smart, we South Enders may yet win Nobels and Pulitzers, although maybe not the McArthur award.

This Grit Theory, though, caught my interest. Awhile back a fellow named Malcolm Gladwell wrote a book that postulated that successful people put in 10,000 hours of work before they reached competency enough to be considered successful. Masters of their Chosen Field. I guess it takes true grit to put in 10,000 hours of anything so maybe they’re saying the same thing.

Me, I consider myself a Dabbler. A dabbler, if you look it up in those old dictionaries nobody uses anymore, is a person who refuses to take himself seriously. Probably drinks, sleeps in, doesn’t read directions or take instruction, would rather cut off his right arm at the elbow than shoot for perfection, can’t be bothered with too many details, probably wanders the garden rather than finish an honest day’s work ….

I’m happy to be a Dabbler. I always intended to be a Bum, but dabbling saved me from the vicissitudes of bumhood. I found this old shack when shacks cost what shacks should cost. Then I stumbled into glass art and managed to dabble myself into gigs that kept me from working. I’d tell you I have 10,000 hours logged, but hell, I’m not going to waste time doing the math, all that multiplication, and anyway, I don’t punch a timeclock. Plus, then I’d want to do some long division, figure out my hourly wage and send myself spiraling into a deep depression.

Always dabble, that’s my preference, that’s my motto. Although, I will admit, I’m pretty gritty about it.

Skeeter is headed east into the blunt force of this winter’s cold blast, first to Wisconsin, then on to Philadelphia. He had intended to have his android servant write sketches in his absence, but unfortunately, he’s fallen in love with the loveable robot and has decided to take her with him on this junket. So … you readers desperate for news of a non-Trumpian nature will have to make do with the Jolie/Pitt gossip pages in his absence. That, or as always, scroll down a couple of years here on this blogsite, dig thru the archaeological ruins and see what pottery shards of prose you can find. Pre-Donald artifacts.

I got more than a few pet peeves I’ve accumulated in my life and not too many got relegated to minor annoyances over all those years of mellowing into old age. One, though, deserves special mention, not because I overcame my peeve or even made the pet into petty, but because I learned the hard way how acting on those peeves can lead to something more dire.

There are days when the sight of a front end bumper trying to make love to my back bumper incites in me a loathing akin to those anti-porn Christians infuriated by teenage boys slumped over a library terminal. They’re probably not in a hurry, really, they just never had driver’s ed and the thought that the distance between us wouldn’t leave time for a short prayer to the Lord when a sudden stop was necessitated by a dog running out in front of us. Sometimes they’re simply preoccupied with a text message and possibly haven’t noticed we’re locking bumpers. Although … sometimes it is someone in a panic to go a little faster than my speed limit and they’ll eventually pass in a frantic run at slipping between me and the oncoming vehicle before both of us hit the shoulder. Usually they’ll be waiting at the next stoplight. Nobody makes time on this road, don’t they know that?

So the other day a truck was sucking wind off my muffler like a junkie off a crackpipe. I slowed down five miles per hour, then when that was insufficient signal, ten. This only angered the driver in the truck who flipped me off and edged closer. We looked like a NASCAR finish lap, the rear truck drafting before the sudden break for the checkered. Don’t ask me why, but occasionally in these moments, I like to hit the brakes. It’s a dangerous move, jab the pedal, lurch down ten mph, then stomp the accelerator to avoid the inevitable rear end collision. With some cooperation from the tailgator, perhaps a lesson is learned about the stopping distance between two vehicles moving at 50 mph. The student, naturally, may resist the education, but really, who cares?

My angry follower didn’t hit the brakes, however. He swerved instead. And not onto the shoulder but out into oncoming traffic. We were both a bit surprised, and so was the oncoming car. I hit the shoulder and so did the oncoming while our tailgator sailed through the breach.

I suppose this was a lesson primarily for me of unintended consequences. Today I had a car 5 feet behind my truck but I decided it was a nice day, a short distance home and an okay song playing on the radio. Like politics these days, there’s no point slamming the brakes, exchanging insurance info, dialing 911. Besides, I have plenty of other peeves to work on, better to pick one of those that won’t create collateral damage. Probably scratch tailgating strategies right off my New Year’s Resolution this year.

I just crawled out of the cocoon of our 3 quilt bed after snoozing for 15 hours. At least I think it’s 15, although maybe it’s 39 and we missed a day. We had our annual New Years Party a day ago, or two, and I guess we were exhausted after two days of prepping for it and another cleaning up the debris. This year we had a lot of folks cancel because of colds, flu and icy roads so the crowd was limited to about 45 or 50, not the expected 75 or so.

We used to have a few folks over New Years eve, maybe have dinner, then wait patiently for the clock to hit midnight so we could all, mercifully, wish one another a Happy New Year, call it a night, then toddle off to bed. Those last couple of hours were painful. We finally decided to Go Big or go home. So … we went big. Course in the early years here, we didn’t know a lot of folks and we didn’t have many friends down here on the wild South End. Most of the pioneers were older and not that interested in us young upstart newcomers.

But it’s been about 35 years and us young upstart newcomers aren’t anymore. We old codgers have been worming our way into various island nooks and crannies, everything from the Historical Society to the Beach Watchers, the arts crowd to the music scene, the Senior Center to the fire departments, from the Grange to the Friends of the Parks. As the island grew, so did our social circles. And so did the New Years Party.

It’s more than a little ironic, I think, that the xenophobic kid who moved to a shack at the end of this long skinny ass island, the guy who wanted nothing more than to be left alone, should have, after all these years, so many good friends and close acquaintances, so many neighbors he’s happy to see. Life is a series of unexpected turns, some detours and more than a few great surprises, this party every year being proof of that. Happy New Year to all of you. Make a resolution, then don’t worry if it changes into something else. It might be for the best after all….

For a long time I’ve been befuddled by the continuous ‘newsfeeds’ concerning all things Kardashian. I thought maybe it was my lack of cable networks, you know, missing all those wonderful reality TV shows. But this past election opened my eyes to the state of information dispersal in the good old Yew Ess of Aye. We get our news, not from the untrustworthy folks at NPR or the NY Times or PBS and CNN. Not even from Fox News. We get the fair and balanced from Facebook. Since I’m the last human on earth who has not signed up for the Hive, all these Borg newsflashes miss my antennae. I am no one’s ‘friend’ and apparently friend to no one.

Yesterday I read that 49% of Republicans believe Pizzagate is true. Wilder yet, 24% of Democrats believe Hillary Clinton is running a pedophilia ring, human trafficking and satanic ritual abuse out of a family pizza joint in Washington DC. Stop and think about that for one South End second. It’s as if a very sizeable percentage of my fellow Americans believed in evil fairies that live in the sewer system of every major city, planning secretly to use the rats to do their dirty work some night in the near future. They have telepathic powers and they invade our dreams! They know what we’re thinking!! They control our TV’s!!!! They’re filling our heads with insane bullshit!!!!! They have hacked the Russians who have hacked us!!!!!! They have taken over Donald J. Trump’s human body and now will become the next president of the United States of Evil Elves!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Please don’t post this, you folks who are on Facebook. We have lost our sense of humor. We are gullible as demented geriatrics drooling in front of the Sean Hannity Show. Someone, probably those damn fairies, has put Kool-Aid in our municipal water systems. And we’ve been drinking it for years. They tell me a comet is passing our solar system tonight. No doubt it is coming to take the True Believers to a better world. Pack your bags, is my advice. You’ve already paid the fare, why not enjoy the trip?

In these Dark Times of Post-Truth you know deep in your grief stricken hearts that somewhere, somehow, there must be a place where the fires of civilization still smolder, ready to be rekindled, their embers primed to burst forth in a blaze heralding some New Renaissance. That place, that Polaris of Verity, that Constant Star which guides the Lost and the Lame back home, awaits you!

Yep, the South End New Year’s Party! For 35 years this beacon of Eternal Truthiness has been welcoming those wandering in the wilderness back to renewed Hope. 2017 might seem to many, not a path to making America great again, but a dirt road down a desolate dead end. Sounds pretty much like the South End to us. We aren’t going to try to make New Years great again, it’s already great. Okay, it’s good enuff. Well, anyway, we’re used to it. And you should get used to it too.

Come on down and join us for a sorrow-drowning, tweetless, rollicking good time. If it’s lies you want, we got em by the bushel. If it’s reassurance that the country is going to be hunky-dory, we can do that too. If you want the swamp drained, well, bring a bucket. But by all means, bring yourselves, bring a friend, bring a dish, bring a bottle. We’ll start at 7 and go til the bogs are firm. Happy New Year even if you can’t make it!!