The Skeeter Daddle Diaries

Down here in the start-up labs of the South End we’ve been printing DNA. Got ourselves some sterile vats full of 4 major amino acid groups, hooked em up to a 3-D printer, ran a USB port to a laptop and went to work experimenting with interesting combinations. Make our own stem cells with unusual variations of chromosomes, another year or two, you’ll see Wal-Mart offering kits for the kids. Make your own sibling! Puppy in a test tube! Fun for the whole family!

Course we’re still working out the bugs, literally sometimes. South Endomex Technologies made a fast mutating paramecium that ran rampant in the dumpster behind their lab a couple months ago. Two or three cats lost more than their allotted 9 lives before Billy Brandon, the night manager, noticed clumps of matted fur behind the building and alerted Frank, South Endomex’s project manager next morning. “Looked like they’d been turned inside out and twisted,” he whispered before giving notice.

Kind of a wake-up call, I guess. They double bag unwanted recombinants now, no point taking unnecessary chances. Not that anyone’s very worried. I mean, what are the odds of escaped life forms surviving in the hostile environment of the nettled South End? Humans barely eke out an existence, what chance does an unstable pile of amino acids have?

Still, always good to err on the side of caution even if the government hasn’t gotten around to clamping down on the profit motive with overly burdensome regulations.     Yet….     Which only makes us all that more inventive. Time, after all, is not on our side. But judging by the influx of venture capital, the potential is nearly unlimited. Forget Silicon Valley. This here is the Next Big Thing. This is the new Garden of Eden, a chance to get it right this time. You want an apple, Adam? Tart or sweet? Red or yellow? With or without seeds? Just punch a program, Big Fella, no need to disobey orders from On High. But … maybe keep an eye out for any odd looking worms. Still got some flies in the ointment….

Jihad Jimmy, last time any of us South End yahoos talked to him, was holding court at the Thursday AA meeting a month ago. Jimmy had kicked his drinking problem but now he had a religion problem, maybe not to him, but for the rest of the assembled abstainers, for sure. Jimmy had grabbed the first lifesaver that floated by when he was hopelessly adrift in a gin-filled sea and I suppose it could’ve been music or woodworking or yoga …. But no, Jimmy found four nicely dressed folks at his door one inebriated afternoon who asked if he’d care to discuss Scripture.

Good timing! Brenda, his long suffering wife and breadwinner the past two years, had left him the day before and in his drunken despair, Jimmy had sense enough to reach out for proferred help. Always nice to find a Sign or an Omen when you’re free-falling over the cliff of your imagination and believe me, Jimmy was expecting the Bottom.

Addiction, whether it’s alcohol or Heaven, makes True Believers of us. I’m not saying they’re equal, especially when you see Jimmy clean himself up, dust himself off and return to the world of the living. Course now J.J. is talking Rapture. Revelations. End Times. Sign of the Beast. He finds Signs everywhere now. He’s a prophet, although he never claims it. He just Sees what’s obvious, just wants to share it with us Lost Souls.

Just for once, I’d like a religion that loves THIS world. That doesn’t think the Next World is gonna be better. Maybe Jimmy’s going door-to-door with 3 other Jimmy’s, knocking on broken hearts, broken dreams, broken hopes. Maybe they’re saving lives, hell if I know….

Brenda’s doing some clerical work for Windy Rear Realty. It’s okay, she says. Twenty hours a week, not too stressful. She told me he’d stopped by her house a week ago. Wanted her to leave with him and start over. He’d changed, he said. He was sorry. He asked forgiveness before it was too late. “Too late?” she asked. “Too late for what?” “The Rapture,” he told her. “You’ll be left behind.”

Left behind?? “Jimmy,” she says to him, “that sounds exactly like heaven to me.”

I remember about 30 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!

Before the heady days of internet shopping, we had Bryant Hardware. You got some impossible to find esoteric gizmo, you could probably find it down at Bryants. Or at least Ma Bryant could. If she couldn’t, trust me, Joe Google couldn’t either. And if Joe couldn’t find it, trust me again, you’d pay Top Dollar for one when you discovered it in an antique store.

My piston driven well pump quit pumping water about 6 months after I bought my palace. My water was down over 100 feet in a hand dug hole 3 feet in diameter. The pump ran fine, it just didn’t pull up the water. Down the hole 105 feet away from quenching my thirst, a foot valve had given out so we had to pull up the oak rods in 10 foot sections. Which meant cutting a hole in the wellhouse roof so we could hoist each of 10 sections high enough to unscrew the upper one from the next one below. It was nerve racking work, but then … most of life on the South End was nerve wracking back then.

When we got to the end we found the old ‘leather’ was blown out. My neighbor — who’d identified our problem in the first place — said we needed to go to town to buy another. “Another?” I asked, incredulous. “Who in holy hell is going to carry a ‘leather’ for a 1930’s well pump system?”

“Ma,” he answered. “Ma’ll have one.”

We drove to Stanwoodopolis, walked into Bryants and asked the owlish woman behind the register if she had our ‘leather’. She peered at the ruined one, then peered at us. Finally she got up with a heave and we followed her into the back section with the 20 foot ceiling of stamped tin, what’s now the food bank, down the aisle of 1950, over to the shelf of 1940 and up to some dusty boxes near the top that was all that remained of the Great Depression. She climbed up on a rickety step ladder, pushed aside a Kitty Hawk propeller and a Model T crank, rummaged through Victrola parts, muttered once or twice, then finally came up with the last two ‘leathers’ in America. “I thought I had a couple,” she said. I couldn’t believe it. “Two dollars,” she told me, probably the price back in 1928.

You folks who buy your hardware in plastic wrapping and expect the part you want has long been obsolete, well, that may be the modern condition, but for a long time on the South End, time meant nothing in Bryants. Ma finally died a decade ago and we lost the 20th Century overnight. Needless to say, I have a modern pump now that I can’t get replacement parts for my old one. And you know, I’m sure, when it malfunctions, it can’t be repaired.

I got a pal, Guitar Bob, who just came back from the doctor’s office for his yearly checkup. The doc, he told me, last time I was over, said he should start taking statins. “Statins?” I asked. “Aren’t those for lowering cholesterol?” Bob’s cholesterol has always been low. His old man died at about 99 and Bob’s got genes like Methuselah.

“Whaddaya think?” he asked. Guitar Bob and I have spent many a night talking medicine between songs, mostly with the determination to avoid it. Folks I know spend a fortune on herbal remedies for arthritis and colds, pump ibuprofen for pain, take meds for depression, drink fungi-infused teas for god knows what, all in the hopes it’ll cure what ails em. I believe in eating good food. I know, not gonna sell self help books with that, but I believe you ought to skip the experiments and stick with apples off the trees in the orchard.

Statistics don’t lie, mister. But they are misleading. For awhile I was taking a baby aspirin every day. Supposed to cut down the odds of a heart attack. Now they say it increases the odds of a stroke. So I quit the baby aspirin. If the doctors can’t make up their minds, I sure can.

Who knows what combinations of the myriad stuff we stick into ourselves does what to what? Tomorrow night we’re making sauerkraut, fermented cabbage, garnished with Cindy, the goat woman’s, garlic. Her cabbage too.

Some day, years from now, some future foodologist will discover that fermented cabbage combined with garlic caused duodenal cancer in 10% of the South End population. Except for the lucky few who were taking statins to control cholesterol.

Back when I first moved to the wild South End, I worked graveyard weekends at the Pain Motel in Everett, Everett General Hospital. We had maybe 3 or 4 emergency rooms in the ER, what is now 65 rooms. Most weekends were pretty quiet, good for sleeping if you were the orderly, which I was. But occasionally we’d crank it up, holidays especially, but we could never predict.

My first year there was an eye-opener. A lot of blood, plenty of horror, none of it for the squeamish. I guess you can get used to about anything. But that first year I wasn’t used to the shock yet. My job was basically gopher. Run fluids to the lab, look for missing medical records, deliver supplies, take the dead to the morgue, deliver patients to the wards, you name it, that was my Job Description.

Bout a month after I started we had this motorcycle gangbanger come into the ER. Drove himself in after he’d put his hand into the moving chain. I ran bloodwork and paperwork on him to the lab and eventually I was called on my beeper to go get him in the ER and take him to his room. He was sitting up on the gurney and said he could walk okay, but I said we got rules and one is he had to get driven by gurney. “Okay, man,” he said, which is biker talk for ‘bite me’, but he said, “Let’s ride.”

A nurse ran up to me with a cup and said deliver it to the desk on the 5th floor when I got there. The biker said, “You got my fingers in there, man. They’re gonna sew em on in the morning.” I took a peek and yeah, there on ice were three fingers a bit worse for wear.

“They told you they’d sew them on tomorrow?” I asked. He said, yeah, no problem. Well, maybe not to a drunk biker, but you know and I know, if you’re going to reattach missing body parts, it’s kind of critical to do it sooner rather than later. I said, “Hey, man, talk to a nurse when we get up there and tell her what you told me. They’re not planning to sew these on you, c’mon, think about it.”

Our hospital, being a public funded hospital, took in everybody, insurance or not, no small thing really, but I learned that night not everyone receives the same care. Somewhere along the line, maybe on an adjoining barstool, I’ll probably meet an old biker, 2 finger Fred, and we’ll have a beer and maybe a laugh over this shared memory. Well … the beer, probably not the laugh.

Like so many of us South End men in this post-chauvinistic era, I was in the kitchen chopping up vegetables for a tasty dinner for when the mizzus got home from the mine. Every store-bought pepper had this itty bitty sticker with a scanner bar glued on semi-permanent so I had to dig at it to get it off. And it got me to wondering — what kind of glue sticks like this and does washing my pepper really get that stuff off and does it add anything savory to the tastebuds and is it known to the state of California to be carcinogenic???

Now let’s understand here, I’m not talking about the government getting involved. I’m not advocating the FDA look into whether my level of glue toxicity is above some approved threshold. No sir! We’re living in the day of Get-Government-Off-My-Back and the last thing us South Enders want to see is paying some federal employee to investigate this when we can just run some studies on our own, find out exactly WHAT that sticky substance is and set up a double blind experiment to find out, for ourselves, what kind of effects this glue has. All I know it might be good for us. Might grow hair back. Might cure erectile dysfunction. Might prevent cancer.

I mean, why can’t we just think positive? Why do we assume GMO foods are necessarily so bad we got to have labeling? Or irradiated foods? Milk that last months instead of weeks? Take that fracking we got going on. The oil companies don’t have to tell the damn government what they’re dumping in those wells. They got government off THEIR backs, but do we celebrate that? Do we declare victory over burdensome regulations? Hell no, we don’t!! We whine and we cry and we scare everybody with horror stories of funny tasting well water and water that catches fire. Here’s a tip: don’t drink flaming water. Duh.

You’re worried, get a test kit and have a go at it. Government can’t do everything for ya. And when you find out those chemicals kill 99% of the bacteria down your well, maybe consider a little thank you card to the oil companies. It IS called Better Living Through Chemistry.

A few years back we came home from a vacation to find a tree had blown down and made a direct hit on my boathouse, limbs punched through the metal roof, rafters broken in half, support poles leaning at precarious angles, nothing you want to find after a relaxing trip to get away from the problems of your world. Fortunately the little sailboat I’d built back in 1990 hadn’t been crushed but it was a close call with the collapsed roof a few inches from smashing it. I don’t sail it much anymore but it’s a much beloved possession.

With some winches and a few fresh poles I managed to jerk the building back upright, sistered up the broken rafters, bandaged up some holes in the roof and figured, well, sure, it was kind of ugly now but worth saving rather than rebuild from scratch. Year after year it kept leaning more and more, but I would shove timbers in front of it to slow it down. This week I emptied the side shed of rough cut lumber, planed the whole she-bang, took out the aluminum I’d stored for glass installations over the years and decided maybe it was time to do a little upgrade on the building so with the sun at my back, a house jack at the ready, couple of new beams and a maul for beating the old ones upright, I went at it optimistically.

But when I would get one corner upright more or less the opposite side would lean worse. I tried shoving poles and beams against that side to keep it from falling over but nothing I did seemed to work. Being an impatient sort, I finally tried to just force the bastard up and into place, got the tall corner sort of squared away before a beam let go and I found myself shouldering the weight of the entire building as it started to fall on me before frantically pulling the support pole into a precarious angle that stabilized things. Momentarily. Back in the rear I latched onto that pole, gave it a little encouragement with my 8 pound maul … and watched the whole she-bang let go, pulling the back support of the boatshed down too.

Lucky for me I wasn’t on the inside with that last tap. Unlucky for me the boatshed let loose too. I could see my little sailboat, the SS Pterodactyl, with part of the roof seemingly resting on its rear transom, a sad sight for this Popeye, just another idiot who sailed into treacherous waters without proper training, no life jacket and no one near to come to the rescue. Some of us never learn….

Back 40 years ago the tulip fields of Skagit Valley looked like a Mondrian abstract, geometrically colorful grids laid out with Mt. Baker in the background, a photographer’s wetdream. A few folks rolled up from the cities, braving the weather and us locals, but not so many the farmers took notice. Like a lot of innocent beauty in this world, the Chamber of Commerce decided to, well, what we refer to today as ‘monetize’ those candy colored flowers. Organize, advertise, centralize — monetize! The town’s surrounding the fertile fields in the Skagit floodplain joined forces, hoping the next flood would be human.

Fast forward a few years and picture rural roads gridlocked with urbanites in cars, tour buses, on bicycles, all stopping to take foolproof colorful photos of glorious fields of tulips in perfect rows of reds and yellows, purples and pinks, with weathered barns leaning toward the Cascades. Traffic came to a halt, the highway off the interstate would be backed up like a concert crowd in an amphitheater or a football game downtown. The farmers couldn’t get a tractor or a truck through, residents couldn’t get out of their driveway, schoolbuses became prisons of trapped kids who wouldn’t get home until dark.

Success! Well, for the Chambers of Commerce and the restaurants and the art galleries and the nurseries. I drove through the fields yesterday thinking it was too early for the mobs. I got home today. There are a few fields glowing in technicolor but mostly the Big Growers have consolidated the fields near their gift/retail/tourist shops. The sightseers, searching desperately for a potty stop, mob the towns of La Conner, Conway and Mt. Vernon. You can buy 3 tulips for $10 there. You can eat at a café or a restaurant with a life-saving bathroom. You can spend the day in our very own Holland complete with faux windmills.

What you can’t do is see those old fields lost to memory where colors stretched for acres between the 20 foot high dikes that held back the Skagit. Now they only corral the tourists. And the predominant color is green.

I just came across an old photo of our newly remodeled sauna back in about 1983 engulfed in flames from the fire set ablaze when I installed a triple wall stovepipe chimney in it. Course, not having access to the internet and you-tube, I assumed the cedar shake roof could actually touch the stack, you know, since it was insulated and all. The mizzus wanted to call the fire department but I said it’s way too late for the volunteer basement savers now. That was before the adjoining wellhouse began to smoke from the paint reaching combustion point. The wellhouse goes and our adjoining house, without water to fight a blaze, would be history.

A few years back I nearly burned that house down anyway trying to solve some mysterious electrical issues. The panel box was outside wired directly to the street with no cutoff switch, necessitating working on it live with enough voltage to kill an elephant. If an elephant was an electrician. Neither me or the pachyderm were electricians. I shorted out a 60 amp breaker trying to replace it, sent sparks flying out of the prybar like a transformer had been hit by a tree, managed to melt down fat 6 gauge wires in the 100 year old tinder dry walls and of course this time decided to call the fire department. Except I don’t own a cellphone and don’t have a landline in the shack.

Apparently I’m my own arsonist. A slow learning arsonist to boot. Last week I was up at the rental house trying to install a 240 volt in-wall heater, replacing the 120 volt one I’d installed a month earlier, moving that one to the bedroom to replace the old 240 volt one. The panel box is outside but the power from the street can be cut off. No need this time to stand on two rubber tires for what I hoped back then would be somewhat adequate insulation from electrocution. Right. I got the first heater replaced okay. The bedroom one was a rat’s nest of strange wiring but undaunted I proceeded to screw things up, rewired hot wires to grounds, white grounds back to hot, you name it, I couldn’t make the thing work. When I finally hit on one wiring scheme that did, the bathroom heater quit working. Somehow they’re connected in ways that I never figured out.
But persistence is the enemy of safety, let me assure you. I kept at it and finally melted down a couple of wire nuts which, needless to say, alarmed even me. At some point I got the bathroom heater back but not the bedroom and so, ever the prudent do-it-yourselfer, I decided to live with it. Last night we were up there having a dinner away from home and lo and behold the bedroom heater worked and so did the bathroom. For an hour. Now neither work. You tell me and the elephant I rode in on. Today I’m screwing up my courage to try it one more time. I look at that photo of the sauna engulfed in flames and I may have to reconsider things.