The Skeeter Daddle Diaries

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Can Jimmy Come Out and Play

When I was a snot-nosed kid growing up in Georgia, we pretty much made up our own games, indulged in shooting marbles, rode bikes, made soapbox cars, played hide and seek, sardines, kick the can, hailey-bailey over and lots of sandlot baseball. The days were unsupervised and unscheduled — they just unrolled in our lazy summer daze depending on weather and the kids we could round up from the ‘hood. Everybody got to play and nobody was excluded. Summertime … and the livin was easy.

Apparently those days are part of a nostalgic past long ago lost to my friends’ kids whose play is as managed as tightly as a NASA space launch. Ballet lessons, soccer practice, judo courses, violin classes, little league baseball, soccer camps, swims at the YMCA, karate classes, polo lessons. So much for spontaneity, hello discipline.

We got the kids on a fast track from pre-school to graduate PhD’s, the little tykes don’t have much time for free-form fun. Our moms would say be back for dinner and off we’d scatter to the four corners of the neighborhood and beyond into the woods. I don’t know if we learned self-reliance out there beyond parental leashes, but I suspect it taught us independence and probably stalled the adolescent urge to revolt. We didn’t have much to rebel against unless we didn’t want dinner served up same time same table, not much of a revolution stewing there.

We camped out in the backyards, we hiked across bogs and woods, we built shabby treehouses and put playing cards in our bike tire spokes. We were the Wild Ones, but … not really. We were kids, grass stained with torn shirts. We fought, we got in trouble, we lived through it. Mostly it was fun. All the time.

I wouldn’t want to be a kid now. Hell, you CAN’T be a kid now. Your parents got you scheduled, signed up, coached, monitored, pushed hard and expected to succeed, no time to waste, certainly not in childish tomfoolery. Fun? Hey, kid, fun is for losers.

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Last winter physicists announced they had finally found what they had been looking for since Einstein predicted its existence: the God Particle. Now don’t get overly excited here — it’s a subatomic particle, not God Herself. Yesterday the atomic collider in Switzerland reversed itself. It was just a jiggle in the machine. These things happen, especially when you want like hell to find that God Particle.

Some of you laymen out there may not know the Uncertainty Principle. Most folks don’t. You may have even missed the original announcement of the discovery of the God Particle. We are a little busy here. The Kardashians alone could sponge up what little is left of our attention spans 24/7 and now there’s the Trump circus. Physics, especially quantum physics, well, it’s bound to take a backseat. Or get stuffed in the trunk.

But … since I have your attention briefly, the Uncertainty Principle states that there are no ‘proofs’ of theories that are valid. The very fact that the experimenter is watching the experiment changes the results in quantum physics. This is what Logicians refer to technically as a Major Bummer. Subatomic particles realize you’re peeking and then they behave differently. Doesn’t matter if the physicists cover their eyes with their hands, the quarks know. Beats me how, but they do.

I sometimes wonder if we live in a world that’s mostly what we think it is, that maybe there’s no real in reality, just a world of our imaginations. Course, that’s the artist in me hoping that’s the way the universe works, me pulling the strings, me creating the world, me making a music hopefully others can hear. Maybe the God Particle isn’t so much a proof, maybe it’s a music and we just haven’t learned yet how to hear it, much less hum the melody.

Stay tuned, is what I say. And try not to let the quarks know you’re paying attention.

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The Flatheads were gathered at the Diner last Wednesday, their weekly vintage car guyz breakfast that gave the parking lot the feel of a time machine run amok. Most Wednesdays the boyz order ‘the usual’ from Anita or Brenda, both waitresses pretty versed in their preferences. But this last Wednesday Vee Dub Danny asked Brenda if he could get gluten-free toast instead of his usual wheat.

He might as well have backfired a sausage fart. The three tables jammed together stopped what they were saying and all eyes turned on Vee Dub. “What did I do?” he asked the breakfasteers. “I’m just trying to cut out gluten. Jeez … you never heard of wheat allergies?”

Oh, the Flatheads had heard of it all right, they just didn’t believe in it and they certainly didn’t believe Vee Dub had it. “You been eating wheat toast and extra butter every week for years, Danny,” Jerry told him. “Next week you’ll have lactose intolerance.”

“Actually …” Vee Dub started to say but stopped when half the Flatheads smirked at what they thought was coming. Brenda, ever efficient, could see the orders bottlenecking like Seattle traffic. “Maybe take the rye, “she suggested helpfully, but when Vee Dub asked if it had wheat, she said she’d have to look at the ingredients on the bag.

“Take a risk, Dan,” a voice shouted from downwind, “we got to eat before lunch.”

Vee Dub started to look over the menu, probably the first time in years, but he faltered under the collective silence and Brenda’s waiting pencil. “Rye toast,” he announced to the assembled mechanics in a determined voice, then added quietly, “but hold the butter.”

It’s difficult to determine, on the unforgiving South End, if ciliac disease is as epidemic as the 1% of the outside population who are diagnosed with it, but I did notice the Diner doesn’t serve gluten-free anything. Anyway, I figure most indigestion is from too much of their coffee. And peer group pressure.

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Today I read about a shark that was 350 years old, the oldest living thing on the planet with a backbone, what we on the South End call a vertebrate. It lives in very cold water and the science boyz figure maybe — although they have no proof — that this promotes longevity. Before you turn up your air conditioner to the temperature of a meat locker, maybe you should wait until the results are in and the double blind tests are conclusive. Course you could always move to Fairbanks. Although I suspect those Alaskans don’t live to be 300.

Most folks would love to find the Fountain of Youth, some way to live long as Methuselah. I got a friend, who’s a pharmacist no less, and he takes 100 pills a day in hopes of stalling the onslaught of cellular decay. He says he’s having trouble getting the last few dozen down. I said you think it’s bad now, wait til you’re 200.

I’m only one sixth as old as that shark, but the thought of living 5 more of these lifetimes would only fill me with dread. A lot of old codgers crowding the planet doesn’t seem like a prescription for paradise to this old fart. It’s not like most of us would learn from our mistakes — we’d just keep learning new ones.

I guess I’m entering Old Age. At least that’s what my aches and pains are trying to tell me. My mother just went into a nursing home. Got her own room, two really, TV, refrigerator, stove, pretty much everything she had at home, just a smaller area. I ask her what she’s doing and she says, every damn time, nothing. But she wants to go home. Home is where she never left the house either and is pretty much what she’s doing now, nothing. Old age, I suppose, is where what’s behind looks better than what’s ahead. If that’s true, then maybe I’m not as old as I think. What I think is I’m glad I’m not that shark.

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Down at the South End Legion Hall, the vets were pumped, beers were lined up in military formations, the big screen TV was tuned to the opening day Game and bets were still being wagered. Not on the outcome of the football game but on whether the players would take a knee for the Star Spangled Banner. A 49’ers quarterback had refused to stand up for the obligatory anthem during pre-season, same pre-game routine as all sports, sports being more American than Mom or her store bought apple pie.

Willy D., known to the Legionnaires as ‘Sarge’, was betting no less than 5 players would refuse to stand up for the national anthem. “Cowards!” he declared even before the star spangled singer had been introduced. “Gutless punks! Probably not a single one has seen service.”

Two Toke Tom was grinning his Cheshire smirk. “Don’t think they give deferments for football, Sarge. And calling a football player a coward, I dunno, it’s kind of a no-brainer. This isn’t ping pong they’re playing.”

Willy D. choked on his swig of Bug Lite, spluttered awhile then finally got enough air to return fire on the smiling Two Toke who was sipping a microbrew, patiently waiting for Sarge’s retort. “Nothing but losers and cowards,” he cried. “They don’t like it here, who’s keeping em from leaving?”

A giant American flag had unfurled the full length of the football field and the singer stepped to the microphone. Willy D. stood up solemnly and glared at the others until they too stood up facing the TV, ballcaps held over their hearts. All but Two Toke. He sat his ground even though the rockets’ red glare had nothing on Willy D’s.

“I didn’t fight in Viet Nam so you A-holes could spit on my flag, Tom.” Two Toke set his glass down. “Sure you did, Will. That’s what we all did. Nobody said we were fighting for conformity.”

“Maybe we fought for patriotism,” Willy growled, still standing even after the rest sat down and put their caps back on. Two Toke stood up and put a hand out to Willy. “We all did, Sarge, we just got different definitions.”
Willy shook his head sadly but he finally shook Tom’s hand. “Okay, Tom, dammit. I assume we’re rooting for the same team, aren’t we?” Two Toke grinned. “Guess we’ll know soon, Sarge. If nothing else, we’re all here to watch the game and drink some beers. About as American as it gets. Unless you want to talk election politics during halftime.”

Willy D. groaned. “Don’t tell me you’re going to vote for Hillary.”
Two Toke said, “Let’s wait for halftime before we start shooting.”

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