The Skeeter Daddle Diaries

Two days ago we emerged from an accidental banishment from civilization as you know it. Two weeks with no internet, no streaming services from Prime or Netflix, no emails, virtually cut off from the Outside World, an electronic Black Hole where no messages came in and none went out, truly a dystopian glimpse into a dark future, post-apocalyptic. Sure, it was a nightmare, a stark reminder of life without constant bombardment of newsfeeds, sports scores, crummy movies, Epstein files, kitty videos, advertisements for new pharmaceuticals and unwanted spam. Okay, a nightmare the first day or so, but … once the withdrawal symptoms settled down and the methadone of walks on the beach or time spent with a banjo in my hands supplanted the previous addiction, ya know, time slowed down, books got read, the doomscrolling stopped and life seemed a tad more, for want of a better, if cliched, word, Real.

Try to imagine life before TV. Life before radio. Life before electricity even, which we also lost for four days after the windstorm blew out phones and internet and power. No podcasts, no Instagram, no Facebook, no Netflix bingeing, none of the usual stimuli that we amuse ourselves to avoid boredom. Just the bare minimum of entertainments. Hobbies, dinners with friends, walks in the woods, playing music. I know, why go on living?

If you want to fall into dangerous nostalgia, lose the internet for a few days. It wasn’t so long ago, really, before home computers, cellphones, I-pads and a plethora of electronic digital devices crowded out our old routines and replaced them with constant clickbait. Time-saving, we all thought when these toys arrived, little imagining they would gobble our hours and days. Who has time anymore to read a book? Our concentration wouldn’t allow for much more than a paragraph or two now. The thought for most of us of having a long conversation with our spouse, well, isn’t that why they invented TV?

Most of us wouldn’t want to return to those idyllic days when we had to fill the boredom in our lives with something of our own making. Too damn hard and getting harder by the nano-second. But if the time ever arrives when you too lose your umbilical to the digital world, you might just find that it isn’t the hell you imagine. Look back at your life pre-computer. It wasn’t that hell either….

When I was just out of college — we’re talking the early ‘70’s here — I wanted to join a commune and be a hippie. I know, a little late for the show, but better late than never, I figured. And anyway, I didn’t want to work so that narrowed my options down to very few. Bum, artist or hippie — or, in my case, all of the above. So a few of us went up to an abandoned farm in Northern Wisconsin and set up shop in an old Polish farmhouse, no indoor plumbing, a couple of electric outlets, a handpump out in the yard and a falling down outhouse.

Rick and I were the two males in the encampment so we he-men took it on ourselves to construct a state of the art outhouse. We found some lumber in the barn — which we learned later, much to our embarrassment, belonged to Ernie, the son-in-law of Felix, the farmer across the road — and armed with hammer and hand saw, we set to work. Now maybe you know how to go about outhouse construction, but Rick and me didn’t have Clue One. We were like Cro-Magnons who’d heard rumor of wheels but had never seen one in action. We knew you needed walls, roof would be good, a seat with one or two holes and of course one in the ground. That last one we figured out okay, but the rest, they were real headscratchers.

Somewhere on the 2nd or 3rd day we’d nailed together some boards, hoping, I guess, inspiration would carry the day. Eddie, our other next door neighbor, who’d probably been laughing himself sick watching from across the field, finally took mercy on us wanna-be hippies and brought over his extension cord, a skilsaw and his cousin Tony who lived in Chicago but had the house down the dirt road we all lived on. Rick and I managed to do just enough to make nuisances of ourselves while Eddie and Tony slapped up our new shithouse in no time flat.

We all sat around afterwards, all us men, drinking cheap beer, warming ourselves in manly companionship and camaraderie, pleased as punch like all masculine carpenters at our ability to erect cathedrals and skyscrapers with our own two hands. So okay, civilization rests on shaky assumptions. Nevertheless, you’d have been pleased too to have an outhouse, not the woods.

When I moved to the wilds of Northern Wisconsin as a high school kid, the Big Deal was to letter in sports. They had, for a school out in the swampy boondocks, a reputation for winning teams, particularly swimming and tennis. Maybe there just wasn’t much else to do for us future paper mill workers.

A buddy of mine was a helluva swimmer. Won state championship when he was a junior, set records when he was a senior. We all figured he’d go on to collegiate swimming, probably try for a shot at the Olympics. Every morning before school, every afternoon after, he’d be in the pool. The kid was half porpoise. The future, through his swim goggles, looked bright. After graduation we both went off to seek our destinies, John to win awards, me to figure out what the hell I was going to do with my life, a 50/50 proposition. It pays, in case you hadn’t noticed, to decide on directions early then stick to it. Tiger Woods started at 3, kids nowadays probably are doing laps in the womb.

A few years after leaving for our separate colleges, I ran into John. “Still swimming?” I asked, expecting new gills and a long rundown on trophies, awards, scholarships, endorsements from nose plug sponsors.

“No,” he said matter-of-factly, “I quit it. Gave it up.”

“Seriously?” I asked, wondering if he’d been hurt maybe, but no, he said, just wanted to live a life, not just live in chlorinated pools, training for a shot at the Olympics.

The Olympics are going on this week in Rio de Janeiro, the world’s best athletes competing in beach volleyball, ping pong, target shooting, side pocket pool, mudwrestling, horseshoes, every sport imaginable. I’m betting John and I are two of the few who don’t follow the Games. He’s a professor now in Idaho, I’m still wondering what to do with my life. But … I suspect our lives are more interesting than the ones of those dedicated to some sport only the very few will ultimately succeed at. It’s easy enough to be a Loser in this specialized world without taking on the longest odds possible. John, well, he’d be surprised to hear it, but he’s always been a hero to me, a man who could walk away while he was ahead.

Rita Jansen, ever since her husband died a few years back, volunteers at the South End Senior Center’s thrift store. Beats sitting at home watching stupid talk shows, she says, and it keeps the emptiness at bay. For awhile anyway. And … it supports the Senile Center. Which offers her a whole new gang of friends to keep her company, a good bargain for the Center, a good deal for Rita.

She was working as cashier one day when I came through with my newfound used shirt and found her working a crossword in the Crab Cracker, our local Pulitzer-less bi-weekly tabloid of events, calendars, tide tables, poetry, ads and all things local. Including a crossword puzzle. ‘Whatcha got there, Rita?” I asked. “You so desperate you got to read the Cracker?”

Now, in full disclosure, let me admit here I write for the Cracker, have since issue #1, not worth maybe what the first Superman comic just sold for, but going on now something like 15 or 16 years. Rita, taking my money for the 2.75 shirt, declared how she loves the Crab Cracker and me, a hopeless wiseass, asks what in hell do you like about that rag, nothing in there but goofy humor and ….

Before I can finish she says again how she really loves the Cracker and I of course ask what in there could she possibly love and she says, “I’ll tell you what. I love that Skeeter Daddle guy.” Just so you know, once again, full disclosure, I’m that Daddle guy. But I say, hells bells, Rita, that’s crazy, he just writes weird stuff.”

“He’s funny, that’s why,” she tells me. So around we go, me making cracks about this Daddle kook and , geez, Rita defending me. When I’ve finally had enough of this hilarity, I blurt out, “Rita, I’m Skeeter Daddle.

“Oh right,” she says and hands me my change. “You wish ….” Just as the next customer rolls up to her register. So I pocketed my coins, took my used shirt and unceremoniously left. They say fame is fleeting. In my case, it’s flown the coop.

I’m standing at the bar in the South End String Band’s latest hangout after the last couple of dive bars closed. If you want to know why they closed, consider I’ve been here five minutes already, enough to write this much this far. The bartender watched me walk in, the fry cook apparently doesn’t serve liquor to people with a hat so here I stand, still scribbling in my notebook.

Ah … here comes my bartender now to take my drink order.

Oops, no, she’s going to serve the guy who followed me in three minutes after I came in, a regular, surely that justifies leaving the occasional customer to stand another few minutes while they catch up on gossip. There are four of us total in this shotgun alley of a bar. Trust me, only one of us ever leaves a tip. Oops, make that none of us today….

This particular tavern has always been a rough joint. Bikers back in the day, crack users next, meth heads for a time, now just down and outers idling away their afternoons, their evenings, their lives. If you are an aficionado of such places, a connoisseur of the hard drinking, chainsmoking denizens of these inns that the Liquor Board keeps on its permanent Watch List, you can’t really get upset with miserable service when the bartender cops an attitude. After all, the whole place comes with attitude and isn’t that why you come in the first place? You want brass and ferns, muted conversations, white wine in a stemmed glass, the hushed tones of incessant cellphones (‘Excuse me, I have to take this.’) and bartenders who enquire occasionally if you’d care for a refill or a ‘freshening’, you definitely leave town.

There’s some kind of ruckus among the three regulars down the bar but it ends as quickly as it ignited, too early for more than verbal violence anyway. My bandmates eventually arrive and after a short wait Charlene takes their orders. My glass sits empty, but just as she wheels suddenly I try to signal for another beer since she didn’t connect the empty glass with a possible refill. She strides away without turning. My kind of place, I realize, and sure, I’ll leave a tip.

Says here in the newspaper I read every morning, the one nobody believes is telling the truth, that 1 in 6 of us have taken some kind of pharmaceutical to relieve the anxiety of modern living. And here I thought TV, marijuana and alcohol were doing an adequate job.

Never hurts to supplement the relief. These are tough times and when the going gets tough, the tough turn to medication. I confess I haven’t consulted my primary physician yet about my stresses. Soon as I get a primary one, maybe I’ll see what he has on his shelf for Trump Dystopia or Faux News Phobia. Gonna take some powerful mood-altering meds to bodyslam those back down on reality’s mat. “Take two of these and call me in the morning. Avoid television news programs and get a little more exercise, Mr. Daddle. Wouldn’t hurt if you canceled those newspaper subscriptions either.”

I need a new drug, Doc. One that won’t keep me awake. One that won’t make me itch. One that won’t knock me out. A drug that doesn’t come with 50 side effects, one of them being suicidal ideation. Write me a prescription for the blues….

I tried immersing myself in work, even though it meant standing in a cold shack in a winter coat waiting for the woodstove to do its magic, usually about three hours after putting a match to the kindling. Yeah, I should’ve turned the radio to music, not news stations, but addiction is hard to kick. There must be a methadone for politics, Doc, something like that drug they give to alcoholics, the one that about kills the user if he takes another drink, give him pause next time he opens that bottle or turns the dial to BBC.

But the weather has turned Siberial and I couldn’t feel my feet half the morning. Where the hell is Global Warming when you need it? I retreated to the house here where I’m tending the fires all day and half the night. Stopped the subscription to two papers and downsized to the Seattle Times and the ever-newsless Stanwood Gazette. Helped a little, but what news filters through, from Aleppo to Trump’s latest tweet, chills me further. What I need, Doc, what I need as soon as possible, is a new drug.

The ladies at Jolene’s Gift and Boutique were eating their bag lunches in a corner of the back storeroom they’d converted into a break room. Microwave, coffee maker, mini-fridge and a small TV hooked up to a crummy antenna they’d mounted on the back of the building and run a coaxial hookup thru a window. Since their usual soap opera wasn’t on for another 5 minutes they were watching CNN’s coverage of Trump’s tax returns.

“You imagine losing 900 million dollars?” Alice said, munching her cucumber sandwich. “How many lifetimes would it take to make that much?” Shelly laughed, put her iced tea down and pretended to do the math. “Oh, too many if you mean ours? Maybe with plenty of reincarnations.”

From behind her cup of coffee Katie volunteered, “My Jim could lose that much at the casino in a year too if he had it when he walked in. Heck, he may have lost nearly that already. I sure don’t see a paycheck these days. Goes to the tribe.”

“White man’s guilt,” Alice observed with a smirk.

“Maybe he can write it off as a loss,” Shelly suggested. “Isn’t that what Donald did, gamble and lose?”

“Or a charitable donation to the Indians,” Alice tossed in. A commercial for the Washington Lottery came on with improbable timing, its snappy slogan appearing at the end: You cannot win if you do not play. Katie groaned. “Jim should have that tattooed on his fat ass.”

“More like you cannot lose if you do not play,” Shelly suggested, taking one final gulp of her cold coffee and considered pouring a fresh cup, then decided her stomach was already upset.

“You suppose he really is rich?” Katie asked aloud.

“Jim, you mean?” Alice asked and laughed.

“The rich don’t pay taxes,” Katie muttered, “so I guess he must be rich.”

“And the best part?” Shelly moaned, “ it’s all perfectly legal.”

“He claims he’s the only one who can change the laws because he knows how to use them so brilliantly. Brilliantly, he said,” Katie added bitterly, switching the channel to the Young and the Resentful.

“We must be dumb as rocks,” Alice pronounced. Katie got ready to go back to her register. “I might vote for him, though.”

“Dumber than rocks,” Alice reiterated.

“He got rich, didn’t he? And we’re working for minimum wage.”

Shelly got up too. “And we pay taxes.”

Alice turned off the TV. “Dumb as rocks.”

‘Well, I came upon a child of God
He was walking along the road
And I asked him, Tell me, where are you going?’
‘Woodstock’

It’s been 50 years since the hippie uprising bloomed in San Francisco and wilted shortly after. I went out to Haight-Ashbury in 1975, only 8 years too late. By then Flower Power was dried and pressed, steel bars were on the storefronts and the streets were filled with zombies too drugged to leave in time. I left in a few hours, scratching my long haired head where to go next.

Hunter S. Thompson famously said in Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas that there was place in the foothills above Frisco where a person with the right kind of eyes could see where that bohemian utopian tidal wave crested and finally broke. I’m pretty sure I found the archaeological proof of that highwater mark. Just turned the truck around and headed ‘home’, a fictional place as it turned out, an old Polish farmhouse with a barn, summer ‘kitchen’, well and hand pump, plus an outhouse. Cut wood for the hard winter to come and settled in to work on a divorce. We wore icicles in our hair, not flowers. We picked at our marital wounds and by spring the Summer of Love was long since dead and buried.

But — and yeah, Virginia, there’s always a caveat — but some of those seeds from that era, passed bong to bong or secreted away in the short stints at communes, something remained fertile of those ill-formed dreams we had, some lyric or other took root and grew in my personal darkness until finally it emerged, a full blown song, tentative at first, I realize now, then more vigorous in the damp country air of the Pacific Northwest. We did go back to the land, we did set our souls free. We did realize, in the end, we are stardust, we are golden. And we finally got ourselves back to the Garden.

Camano Island 50 years later

When Sheila’s husband got laid off a month ago from the outfit that supplies thingamajigs for Boeing, she hired on at the IGA up north as checkout clerk. “I haven’t rung up groceries,” she said, “since I was 17 and still in high school. Back then we didn’t have scanners, we had to ring every item up on the register. What a difference!”

The other difference, she says, is how much less friendly the shoppers are in our “Friendly Hometown Store”, not like the A&P back in her small Ohio town in 1966. “I guess everybody knew everybody. These days half the customers don’t say hello, they’re busy talking on their phones. I might as well be a robot.”

“You will be soon,” I offer over a cup of coffee while Earl watches TV in the livingroom, probably glad of an early retirement and a wife willing to go back to work. “Hon!” she yells, “can you turn that down a little?” From where I sit at the kitchen nook counter, Earl fiddles with the remote, but instead of turning his game show volume down, he changes channels. Sheila shakes her head and rolls her eyes. Earl takes a hit off his Budweiser and settles into a talk show.

It’s 9:30 in the morning. In a few minutes she’ll leave for her 10 o’clock shift, work until 6, then drive home to cook dinner for Mr. Wonderful. “I don’t mind going back to work,” she tells me. “Good to get out of the house.”

I bet. We used to drive school buses together, Sheila and me, back in the good old days when we were both single and poor and new to the South End. Sheila married Earl and that finished our friendship until recently when I met her, where else, in the checkout line. We have an occasional coffee, but pretty obviously this won’t work for long, not judging by the volume blaring from the livingroom, a loud hint.

“Good to see you, Skeeter,” she says at the door. The TV noise follows us outside. “Thanks for the coffee,” I say and she says, “No problem,” when we both know there is.

I used to raise peacocks.  You ever seen peacocks strutting thru a South End shack yard, it’s sorta otherworldly.  They brought an elegance that was indescribable to our backwash palace.  You ever HEARD one of these exotic creatures, you might reconsider classing up the bottom land.  They got a scream like a child being tortured.  I guarantee the neighbors will wear out 911 with their calls of mayhem and madness at your place.  Course when I had the peacocks, we didn’t have neighbors.  No, they didn’t move away because of the noise, they just hadn’t discovered the fabulous South End yet.

      My peacocks, no offense to you Bird Huggers out there – my peacocks had a head about the size of a big martini olive.  And inside that head they had a brain the size of, well, a pea.  My peacocks were not bright.  They made a chicken look like Albert Einstein.  They thought my Banty hen, who’d hatched their eggs, they thought she was not only Einstein, but their mama and God too.    Don’t ask me what I was thinking.  My brain isn’t real big either.  Although I’m pretty sure who my mama is but don’t ask me about Pop.  I’m like the peacocks – I just go on faith.

     I had the peacocks a few years until Mama Banty got picked off by a Wily Coyote.  They wouldn’t come back to the henhouse after that, so they roosted in the cedars every night.  Dumb or not, they figured out the climbing ability of a coyote.  Finally they decided to go looking for Ma.  The Police Blotter in the Stanwood Gazette – and this is the Gospel Truth – would report on their progress north.  Peacock sighting at Dahlman Road.  Peacocks seen gathering at Sunnyshore.  Eventually they found a chicken surrogate ma up by O-Zi-Ya.  O-Zi-Ya is Southendomish, meaning, I think, Ornithological Orphanage. 

Sometimes I miss those little pea-brains.  Although I can sleep longer w/o an alarm clock that sounds like a nightmare.  I wonder, though, if I’d kept em, if the South End mighta stayed, oh, I don’t know, less developed.  Maybe forced the new neighbors to move north instead.