The Skeeter Daddle Diaries

I’m going up to Stanwoodopolis tonight to listen to our state park folks tell us commoners why they closed down the Cama Beach cabins half a year ago and what their plans for this park’s future are. A lot of folks volunteered time and money for this park and I’m betting they’re coming with questions and pitchforks. The Wooden Boat Foundation closed down its operation there and the ranger, Jeff Wheeler, was unceremoniously booted out too. Jeff was much beloved by us islanders, a hands-on, all around good guy. Maybe tonight they’ll tell us why he was sacked. But I doubt it.

In 1949 we islanders built Camano State Park, about 1000 people who showed up with tractors and dozers, shovels and saws, all volunteers who cleared the road and set up the beginnings of our only state park. Cama Beach was donated by the Hamalaanens and Worthingtons, some 600 acres or more along with the old resort cabins and the boat house. Once again volunteers helped repair the cabins, open up and manage the store, clear trails, make quilts for every cabin, drive the shuttles, a lot of those jobs state parks claims not to have the money for.

So for months state parks has kept mum about why they closed the park. Rumors flew. Indian bones, broken septic, damaged seawall, fire suppression breakdown in the boathouse. Guess they didn’t figure we needed any solid explanations. Now they have this meeting, basically to explain to us peasants why they won’t be reopening our park but of course to get ‘public input’. I suspect they will get plenty of public input tonight. Then they’ll go back to Olympia and do what they wanted in the first place. Always nice to see volunteerism rewarded….

We were down at the Columbia Gorge trailhead last year, emptying bladders and filling water bottles. A woman emerged from the restroom and whispered to her companion in a conspiratorial voice, “There’s no flush.” Her friend shook her head in incomprehension. “Not working?” she asked. “No, there’s nothing but a hole.” “A hole?” her friend asked incredulously. “Just a hole in the ground and no flush.”

I felt like a Cro Magnon listening in on aliens from some advanced galaxy. How could they possibly understand my dependence on a polluting gas engine? Or something as totally primitive as a cellphone? These two debutantes had missed their exit, apparently, on the way to the Ritz. A pit toilet was incomprehensible and if it weren’t such a sordid subject matter, it would have made for the nucleus of many a future discussion over bridge and tea at the Country Club. “But where, Charlotte? where does it Go???”

Indeed. Not that our two ladies could answer that question in regard to the plumbing matrix from their Beverly Hills manse to the sewer system it connects to. What matters is that it be whisked away, out of sight, out of smell. We don’t know how things work anymore — but so long as they do, we don’t need to care. The world is less and less natural to us; it’s electrons and silicon, computerized and digitized, all packaged in Black Boxes that create the new universe.

The trouble is, Charlotte, we’re still of the natural world. Body functions, pheromones, appetites, all that genetic coding of mammalian evolution in a world that’s more and more alien to us. We’ll fix that eventually. We’ll adapt to the virtual world, the one we make not so much in our own image as a clever cyber image. The natural stuff will be obsolete soon and we’ll replace the old ‘parts’ with new and improved engineered ones. The robots aren’t going to take over us humans. Us humans are going to become cyborgs.

And Charlotte, the best part is you won’t need a flush. Or a toilet either.

This spring I built a greenhouse with about 14 old tempered glass door panels I had salvaged long long ago. Treated lumber framing and cedar siding, but mostly glass. Even had stained glass in the front door and two next to that plus another two in the back. Put a 55 gallon black barrel and concrete pavers to radiate heat at night.

The first spring day that hit 70 degrees, the greenhouse hit 90. What, I wondered, would happen when we hit 80 or more? I’m growing tomatoes and a few exotics in there, probably loved that 90 degree heat but I was betting they wouldn’t like Saudi Arabia temperatures. So I cut two large windows in the back opposite the front door to let heat out both ends. This week we hit the mid 80’s outside and the greenhouse hit 105.

Course, I panicked and bought sunblocking screens for the glass roof and got that attached. Next day we hit 89 outside and the hothouse was 107. Not exactly sure at what temperature green tomatoes roast on the vine, I ordered a solar powered exhaust fan. If that doesn’t work, I’ll order a second one.

Inside the greenhouse my tomatoes are 5 feet tall while the ones I planted outside from the same seed are spindly still, just beginning to realize summer is definitely here, but cold at night. The difference between the two is astounding. I recommend a small greenhouse to anyone who still pooh-poohs climate change, still thinks we ought to drive large SUV’s and wants to drill baby drill for more oil and gas. Death Valley broke its all time heat record this week and cities from Las Vegas to Miami are burning hot while the summer’s just begun.

I may or may not solve my greenhouse overheating problem. Bad planning on my part. There won’t be any exhaust fans for Mother Earth when us tomatoes begin to fry on our vines. No sun blocking shrouds, no good fixes. Just bad gardeners, when all is said and done.

I went to apply for my State Park Annual Permit yesterday, what used to be free to us citizens, but now costs us taxpayers because the State doesn’t have enough tax dollars for what it used to have enough for so the budget needs to be balanced. Now the poor can pay what the guy launching his 25 foot Bayliner pays for a permit, same way he does at the gas station for the gas tax, same as he does at the drug store, same as he does just about everywhere he buys something. This is what we call Recessive Taxation. No breaks for the indigent. You know, folks we now refer to as Takers.

Big break for the wealthy. Evens the playing field … for somebody. I’m not so poor anymore. Maybe I should harden my heart, take up polo, spend my days investing on the stock market and figure I got mine, those who don’t, well, they probably didn’t work hard or make the right decisions. Plenty of em down here on the South End living on the wrong side of the road. Probably LIKE poverty. Got what they deserved for not going to college or working at Boeing or being born white or male.

So I go online for my permit cause I can afford a computer and DSL. Good website, easy navigation, sign me right up! I notice, though, if I apply online, it costs $5 more. And I remember the same thing happened on my vehicle licenses. They want me to go through a private vendor, see? Job creation. Get rid of that state job which, apparently, isn’t as valuable a job as a private one and now we pay less taxes, right? Sure … Course, I gotta pay it privately now. Kind of like saving money on garbage pickup in the city. Turn it over to Waste Management, your taxes go down. But you gotta pay Waste Management now. Costs more since they don’t have much competition. But at least you’re not paying more in taxes. It’s a little like contract soldiers in Iraq and Afghanistan. Better, I hear, to pay double or triple pay for Blackwater Boyz than to recruit more volunteers or God forbid, draft kids to fight our wars!

I sure don’t want to pay more taxes. Neither does Boeing. Or Amazon. Or Weyerhauser. Or Cabelas. I guess why we give em huge tax breaks. Sure glad taxes aren’t going toward helping out our State Parks. And that extra 15% to give the private sector a piece of the pie, well, at least it won’t raise my taxes. And the poor. Let em eat cake. But I don’t recommend they order their bakery online.

Back in the early ‘70’s I lived on a Polish homestead in Northern Wisconsin, wife, dog, a few hippie friends, sort of an ersatz commune, which, of course, didn’t last long. Not as long as my short-lived marriage but that’s another story. The little mill town we lived near, Mosinee, was pretty much a redneck burg, home to the Posse Comitatus, one of those fun gun clubs advocating anti-government sentiments. Part of the reason I left, but again another story.

This story is about the Herman’s Hermits who came to Mosinee to play some sad sack of a gin joint on its outskirts. You maybe remember these guys, mid ‘60’s, Mrs. Brown You’ve Got a Lovely Daughter hit, mostly a flash in the pan but hey, big for awhile on the pop charts, part of the British Invasion. A decade later the lads are down to touring backwash America to crowds of dozens, not the thousands they once performed for.

The lead singer whose name I can’t remember, was interviewed on the Wausau station promoting the gig and the D.J. asked him what he thought of playing for really small audiences in the waning years of a once really successful career in a crummy tavern far from the madding crowds of yesteryear.

And Herman, or whatever his name was, said it was great being on top of the charts, drawing huge crowds, being famous … but the real deal was playing their music. Which was what they’d be doing this coming weekend to whoever shows up. We’re bloody musicians, he said, and that’s what we bloody do, play music.

I gotta say, some 50 years later in my own twilight career, I still remember this interview. And I think now what I thought at the time, bloody good on you lads! The money, the fame, the whole music industrial complex — not really the point in the end. Nice to have hits, nice to have a chart topper. But in the end, despite the lights going dim, the band plays on. Course, me, I might miss the groupies….

Harry works down at the O-Zi-Ya Body Shop. He’s an artist with bondo, makes a ‘total’ look brand new after pulling the dents and replacing crushed quarter panels, has a real nice touch with an airless in the spray booth. Back about 4 years ago, Harry was a ‘he’. Six foot four, muscular in a lithe sort of way, moved car parts around like baskets of daisies. I didn’t know him real well, I guess, mostly because my beater cars never got treated to the Body Shop make-over. Dents, scratches, bullet holes —- I’m not spending money for pigs’ lipstick.

So imagine my surprise when Harry walks up my drive during our annual Mother’s Day Studio Tour … in high heels, a tasteful above-the-knee pleated skirt, grey blouse and a matching handbag. “How you doing, man?” I ask nonchalantly and Harry explains, no doubt for the 1000th time, he’s no longer a man. Course, judging by the 5 o’clock shadow of a beard, he’s not quite a woman either. Which, he tells me earnestly, will take the hormone treatments some time to kick in.

Even on the live-and-let-live South End, this was, well , this was … different. And we’re accustomed to different. Harry toured the studio and we chatted it up and when he left I gave him a manly sort of hug and said, “Good luck, man,” and immediately corrected myself. Harry gave me a wink and a laugh and sallied forth down the drive.

Harry quit the Body Shop — not because the boyz couldn’t deal with The Change — they still speak fondly of him. Her. You know what I mean. She wanted a new life to go with the new her.

A couple of years ago I ran into Harry. Harriet now. She was installing fountains. Hauled the rocks, dug the ponds, wired the pumps, plumbed the waterfalls. “I’m an artist, Skeeter” she declared. She was welding sculptural components, creating light shows, running her own business. “Life’s good, then?” I asked.

She broke into a radiant smile, one I never saw at the Body Shop. Leaning down to whisper in my ear, she fairly bubbled, “It’s a joy my boy, it’s a joy!” All I can say is the path to happiness is a whole lot harder for some, even on the salty South End, but it isn’t impossible.

Here’s some good news for you beleaguered gun right advocates: now you can buy your ammo from a vending machine. No need to haul down to your local gun dealer for bullets, just wheel up to the conveniently placed dispenser in your local chain grocery store. Course, at this time the only states where they’re located is Texas, Oklahoma and Alabama but you can rest assure American Rounds, the distributor, will expand exponentially until it reaches your very own Safeway.

Of course if you’re a gun-toting red blooded American, you’re justifiably worried about kids getting their hands on this ammo. Not to worry, the machines require an ID and a facial scan for recognition. If this was a voting machine, you’d rightfully be concerned that it could be tampered with, but for something as inconsequential as purchasing ammunition, not that big a deal. Although I would have thought maybe there would be some concern about that facial recognition scan, something akin to tracking by nano-particles in your Covid vaccines.

The Second Amendment as now defined by our Supreme Court, allows us citizens to keep and bear modified assault rifles with bump stocks that convert them to automatic weapons. Pull the trigger and you can unleash hundreds of bullets a minute. That, my friend, is a lot of ammo. To replenish the armory, you need a convenient place of purchase and what better place than the grocery store where you buy your beer and bread?

All that’s needed now for the new American Militia Man is a vending machine that spits out the gun too. One stop shopping! And not to fear, facial recognition should insure no felons, minors, mentally disturbed or spouses with restraining orders have access to these weapons. If you can’t trust your patriotic vending machine company, who can you trust? The damn government? Lock and load, baby!

Maybe I live too far from Rome. Which, these crazy days of politics gone mad, might be viewed as a blessing from the gods. But unfortunately I’m a news junkie and even worse, I care about the world beyond the South End’s porous borders. As hard as it is to believe, I’m watching the increasingly probable return of Donald J. Trump, convicted felon. A man indicted on so many counts, we’ve all lost count. Impeached but not convicted, twice. We all know who this guy is and yet …

What I cannot comprehend from my perch at the end of an island at the far reaches of the continent is how this election seems to have lost focus on the real issues of our time. Trump is gaining traction with the Hispanic vote. Doesn’t matter, apparently, that he calls the immigrants criminals, insane, rapists, murderers. Trump is polling better with the Black voters. Doesn’t matter that for a decade his dog whistles underly a racism that ought to disqualify him for any black votes other than Clarence Thomas’s. The young voters, all those Gen Whatevers, have begun to swing his way. Doesn’t matter that the greatest threat to them is climate change and if Trump wins, it’s more drill baby drill. Bring back coal, kill the EV automobile, forget about cutting emissions. He’s even gaining with the women, maybe they’re tired of the Me Too Movement and a guy who grabs crotches, rapes women and pays hush money to porn stars isn’t as bad as they thought.

How hard is it to make this case? He blames the deficit on Biden but was the one to cut corporate taxes. And wants to cut them further. He wants to put tariffs back on Chinese imports. How difficult is it to point out the average household will pay even more than what inflation has already cost us? The economy, despite Trump’s dire prediction, isn’t going down the toilet. It’s in better shape than most other countries, employment is growing, wages are up, inflation is down.

I guess our attention spans, shrunk to a few seconds max by Instagram and X, certainly can’t recall when this pre-felon advocated treating Covid with bleach and other quack remedies. Only one million Americans died of that disease but we’ve forgotten by now. Big deal … and the next pandemic he’ll outlaw masks and isolation.

January 6th was far too long back for most of us Inattentives to remember. Mobs hunting our senators and representatives, howling to hang Pelosi and Pence, killing and beating a few capitol police. What the right wing calls a tourist imbroglio, nothing to see there; in fact, given the chance, the instigator will pardon the convicted.

The list of outrages is too long, too depressing, too egregious. But this country, apparently amnesiac, may vote him back in. It takes your breath away. And it will take more than that before his next term ends. Assuming it ever ends.

Billy Jean ran the art gallery down here at the aesthetically swollen South End, the only paid employee. The artists who showed their wares could pay extra commission or work 10 hours a week. Since they rarely sold their art, the extra commission was zip so why should they work? The first year the co-op, the South Fork Art Barn, was closed most days when no one was willing to sit in the vacant Second Hand Shoppe they’d leased. Finally, after mounting rental bills, the South End Arts Council voted to hire a staff person to do what they wouldn’t.

Billy Jean interviewed for the minimum wage, no benefits job and was hired the same day, primarily by dint of NOT being an artist herself, the main criterion the Council set for qualifications. Not having been around artists, B.J., who thought the position would mostly be running the store, tracking sales and receipts, closing up at the end of the day, well, she never dreamed the job actually was Ego Masseuse. The first day Sarah Jenkins came in early to demand her watercolors be moved front and center where they would cheerily greet the customers before they decided to leave empty handed. Billy Jean nodded and smiled, but eventually pled ignorance of the rules by virtue of being the New Hire. She would, she vowed, check with the Council and the Co-op Board. Course, it turned out the Board had their art front and center so a rule was made on-the-spot to keep the current display configuration.

The first week various grumpy artists brought forth their complaints, moved paintings or hung new ones, argued their cases with Billy Jean and wished her luck. Meaning, sell my work! By Friday she felt like a vise had scrunched her ears into one auditory pancake of pain. She was, she told her newly unemployed plumber husband Brent, nothing but a glorified Cat Herder. Brent, still in shock over his sudden layoff, told her she’d get the hang of it, just stick with it, Honey, we need the money, a refrain she later could have embroidered in needlepoint and hung front and center by her own front door and called it art or literature or just a motto for the rest of the South End.

Barely a week has gone by since the Great Debate Debacle, two old geezers in a WWF Smackdown with wet towels. One ranting and ducking, the other just a deer in the headlights, all in all a sad spectacle most of my libtard snowflake friends turned off in less than 15 cringe-worthy minutes. Me, I stuck it out til the end, no doubt hoping Joe’s Red Bull would kick in and he would respond with outrage to some of the lies and evasions of his goofy opponent, but I was more than disappointed, alarmed even that this election looked like a gimme to the goof.

Wildfires are raging across the country in the unprecedented heat waves. Mostly hair on fire among the Democrats wondering what now? What now, indeed. Their candidate, the one who says he was jetlagged after his European D-Day junket, plans to fight on. But … maybe only from 10-4, no more evening interviews, debates or, well, much of anything beyond milk and cookies. So what to do, what to do?

I like Joe, I really do. I loved my Old Man too but when he reached 100, I understood he’d gone past his expiration date a few years earlier. And yeah, I get that Joe surrounds himself with good people, something Donald Trump wouldn’t understand when all he requires is absolute loyalty to Donald Trump. Joe could manage the office another four years with the folks he picks, I have no doubt. But so could plenty of others who are younger, more vibrant and energetic. There comes a time when a wise person should know he needs to step down. Joe has reached that time. His legacy is secure.

But if he pulls a Ruth Bader Ginsburg here and lets that moment pass allowing the country to vote for a vindictive, narcissistic, anti-democratic, probably insane authoritarian who is backed by legions of mewling sycophants, well, Joe, your legacy will be quite different. It’s time to take one for the team. For the country. Take a rest. You deserve it.