The Skeeter Daddle Diaries

Breakfast at the Diner is usually a war zone, but the other day things heated up hotter than Big Larry’s grill sizzling with 10 pounds of bacon. Jimmy the Geek mentioned that his mizzus had heard Pastor Paul down at the Little Church in the Ravine preaching that Christmas was under attack. Walter chimed right in. “You can’t even say Merry Christmas now,” he declared to everyone in the place. “Starbucks gives you a red cup, no words, they’re so %#@>&* politically correct. It makes me want to puke.”

“Settle down, Walter,” Anita warned him as she refilled his coffee. “We don’t have anything written on our cups either.” Two Toke, ever happy to tweak Walter, asked him when he last went to Starbucks. “I thought you were boycotting the Yuppies, Walt.”

“You bet I am! This mud in a mug is all I need,” he declared, brandishing his cup like the gun he carried with his concealed permit. Walter’s ready for battle, trust me.

Down here in Holiday Central, the South End, we love Christmas. We love muzak, we can’t get enough of month-long advertising, we feed like candy canes on Bing Crosby and another viewing of It’s a Wonderful Life. We practically dress in tinsel and we don’t care who’s naughty or nice. Christmas! Most of us leave the strings of colored LED bulbs draped on the gutters and eaves all year round. So when we hear there’s a war on Christmas, you better believe we get up in arms, concealed carry or not. What Grinch wants to ruin our party? we asked ourselves. Couldn’t be WalMart. Couldn’t be the Little Chapel. Couldn’t be TV and their sponsors. Who would want to kill our buzz? Who hates Christmas???

Two Toke said even the South End Greenworks was in full holiday hype, selling faux mistletoe bundles of thai sticks. Flathead Fred’s mizzus had stood in line Thanksgiving midnight waiting for shopping sales at Elger Bay Store’s Black Friday super sale. Flathead avowed that if there was a war on Christmas he sure didn’t see one. Walter shouted “Open your eyes, Fred! The government hates Christmas!!”

Well, we boys at the Diner must be conscientious objectors, cause we couldn’t see a skirmish, much less find that war. Tyee Megastore is open early and closing late. Our stockings are hung with care as always, it’s snowing once again in Bedford and Jimmy Stewart isn’t going to kill himself this year either. Down here on the South End we’re all dreaming of a White One. The rest of you, take cover!

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Call me a cynic and slap me with Greta Thunberg’s last report card, but listening to some guy on NPR who had a startup company whose mission was to counsel folks on their carbon footprints, I felt the way I do when I hear about people who pay money for ‘life counseling’. Probably just entrepreneurial jealousy, wishing I’d thought of it first. Kinda like wanting to be the first used car salesman. Or the guy who sold his art-lined cave to another Neanderthal and took a small fee.

Greenland is melting 7 times faster than it was in the 90’s. I get it, by god, I definitely Get It. The world is going to hell in a hurry. The ocean’s are rising, the hurricanes are wicked stronger, the earth is getting wilder. I don’t need a weatherman to tell me which way the wind blows, it’s blowing down my house, but thanks anyway, Bob.

This tree hugging capitalist figured folks needed a bit of guidance to assist them in navigating the labyrinth of politically correct and green purity avenues that confront and befuddle us modern folks. We’ve fretted nights worrying if we should use plastic or paper, buy organic straws, purchase a hybrid or a full electric vehicle or just walk to town. Should we convert to propane or stick with electric furnaces? Does it make sense to order from Amazon or just shop at the local hardware? Is it better if we order milk in a glass jug and have it delivered? Aluminum or glass? Paper or plastic? Hamburger or Beyond Meat patty? Fly or stay home? Newspaper or internet? Hybrid Prius or 640 horsepower Dodge Charger?

What is an environmentally conscientious yahoo to do? Get a Green Counselor, amigo, that’s what! He can map out a more gas saving route to work than the one you have now. He can tell you to skip having that fifth kid. He can reduce your carbon footprint from Sasquatch to baby print. And … you’ll sleep better knowing that you, one of the billions of people on this warming planet, is doing your bit. Guilt will slide off you like sweat off a Malaysian boat stripper. You may not save the planet, but you will win arguments with your less conscientious pals. And isn’t that worth the money spent?

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Many and varied are the dangers of crabbing on the South End’s Puget Sound. As well I know. Most are natural hazards, but, considering we’re South Enders, born and bred, nearly as many are self-inflicted. A month or so ago I was out in the killing fields, about a quarter mile row when I noticed water collecting at the bottom of my crab boat. I figured a small leak, one that I would no doubt patch, you know, eventually. In my own good time. Later. But only a few minutes went by before the puddle was now a kiddie pool. I tried hoisting my shoes against the side of the boat to keep them dry, but finally I had to remove them, tear off my socks and roll up my pants. Obviously, at least to a grizzled old crabber like myself, this was no little leak.

Later would have to be Now. Well, astute as I am, I quickly diagnosed the problem. The plug in the transom bottom had fallen off and half of Saratoga Straits was pouring into my little 12 foot boat. Any neighbors watching from shore with their livingroom telescopes would probably think my catch was so bountiful the boat was settling half a foot into the waters from the sheer weight of gigormous Dungeness, a haul they dreaded I might turn into a Homeric mythology, boring them for the rest of their retired lives.

Trouble was, I couldn’t find the missing plug. Had it dropped out back at the bulkhead? I stuffed a handkerchief into the hole, which helped some, but I needed that plug. Perseverance, right next to improvisation, is a trait we South Enders have in abundance. Panic was not going to stop me from reaching my pots, that’s for damn sure. Submersion, however, might. I needed that plug.

Which I found under the seat among old crab claws and and clam shells and rotted bait. Where there’s a will, there’s a way. I got to thinking I needed to draw one up, notarize it, maybe that afternoon. Crabbing, like I said, is risky bizness.

Today I planned to pull my pots for the season. Winter crabbing has been poor, the winds and storms are frequent, the dangers are magnified. Most of the time I’m out there with no other boats in sight, no chance of a sea rescue if a mishap occurs. In fact, the wind had come up a bit by the time I reached the bulkhead, but — have I mentioned Perseverance as a South End trait? — I pressed on, lowered the boat onto the shore, loaded up and pushed off.

I once lost an oarlock out there. You ever tried rowing a boat with its most dangerous catch back to shore with one oar, winds roaring in your ears and no one around, believe me, you will understand the words of Gordon Lightfoot’s song The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald. ‘Does anyone know where the love of God goes When the waves turn the minutes to hours? ‘ Well, a South Ender does.

But I digress, as usual. Today I was pulling hard on the oars, fighting waves and current and killer whale attacks, undaunted as always, my very own Captain Courageous … when I felt the right oar go catty wampus. Trust me, my first thought was the oarlock, but no, it was intact. I stroked again both oars and noticed, keen-eyed that I am, the end of one oar was missing. Actually, it was floating away from the boat and I had basically a long stick left. You ever tried rowing a boat with one oar and one stick, trust a salty dog on this, it’s not good seamanship. Any sailor with salt in his veins knows that if he knows anything. Even a South Ender.

Well, sir, you probably guessed I made it back to shore okay or I wouldn’t be sitting here in drydock regaling you with another adventure. Sure I could embellish the story, keep you in suspense, but by now you’ve come to expect Houdini-like escapes, hair raising cliff hangers, impossible catastrophic aversions. Truth be told, I was three feet from shore. Just jumped right out of that scow of mine and dragged it back to the beach. Crabbing — you just never know what the next peril will be. Even if it’s of your own making….

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I got a friend who was bothered that we spent tax payer dollars, HIS tax dollars, to conduct a survey of the island, maybe find out how many people are homeless here in Shangri-La-La. If you think if this bothered him, imagine what his irritation level will be when the next step pops up: funding for shelters or god forbid, small houses. Out here on the Left Coast we have warmer winters than most places back east so homeless folks can survive a bit easier without frostbite or hypothermia. From Seattle and Gomorrah to San Diego, our cities are crowded with people living in their cars, in tents, huddled over heat vents, hiding under freeway overpasses and back alleys, entire families struggling to stay alive in whatever shelter they can scrounge up.

RV’s can be found lining multiple blocks, rusted and busted vehicles that no longer run, without water or power or sewer, without garbage pickup, without most of what the rest of us in the Land of Plenty have in abundance. But … there are those who find no compassion for these American refugees, no sympathy for their plight, no pity for the poor. If my pal is any indication, the best remedy is to keep them out of sight and out of mind and definitely away from his wallet and tax dollars. He believes the ‘homeless situation’ is a hoax, just a ruse to use tax money for bogus bureaucratic bullshit. He asked me if I had ever, ever, known anyone on this island who was homeless. I said of course. Stinky Steve, for one. My heroin addict thief for another. And that was only on the South End. Up north, closer to town, there were plenty more than that.

I’m not on the homeless census count committee. And I doubt it’s epidemic here yet. But on any given day the Food Bank is open, the number of folks seeking handouts is incredible. Most have apartments, I’m betting. Some might even own a house. But there must be plenty who haul their bounty back to a tent or a shed somewhere back in the woods. Why begrudge them these morsels? Why go ballistic over trying to count them and, god forbid, even help them in some small way. We’re not going to build them a 3 story house and buy them a BMW so they can feel like a part of our community. Although maybe if we did, they’d side with my buddy and stop all future funding for those other leeches who want a free ride. Maybe I’ll try that argument on him, see if it works. Cause I want this whining to end. The rich have got to stop complaining!

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One of the curses of being wired to the world in our modern, advanced civilization, the one we think of as the zenith of mankind’s endeavors, is feeling like what happens in some village in Indonesia somehow should be of interest to me. ‘Honey, I shrunk the world’ should be the theme song to every YouTube, Yahoo News, Facebook and Google feed. It’s important to stay tuned in, I suppose, maybe know what the folks in Tierra del Fuego think of the recent killing or the Estonians are doing about Russian meddling in their politics. Hard enough when we’re swamped with news stories here in our own little country, everything from impeachment hearings to the latest mass murder in some town we may or may not have heard of before the media rolled in to cover the mayhem.

It’s not only exhausting, in case you didn’t notice, but … well, it’s a constant distraction from living your life. When I first dropped anchor on the South End, I didn’t have a television, much less a computer. We had a telephone and a stereo that played cassette tapes and records. The telephone was on a party line with a mom and her teenage daughter. In other words, we really didn’t have a telephone that was usable, not with that single mom and her chatty daughter using it 24/7. Not that we really had many people to call anyway….

I bring all this up because the last few days I’ve been sliding back into those early years. It’s winter and the days are short and getting shorter. Back then we did a lot more reading, I played a lot more music, we did a lot of hiking the beach and the woods, time was plentiful and we had to find ways to fill it without resorting to the babysitter we call internet. Early this morning I walked down to the beach with some crab bait, rolled my boat over and lowered it into the water, then rowed out to my pots. Mt. Rainier was perfectly framed in the Straits, golden glaciers in the sunrise glowing majestically. A half dozen cormorants watched me from a raft moored far out from shore and the gulls waited to see what I would toss them from the bait traps when I got to my pots. The now familiar seal that follows the wake of my rowboat kept popping up and checking on me, each time eliciting a bark from me, not maybe a real good impersonation of a seal bark, but he was listening. A fogbank beyond Whidbey lay like a dropped blanket at the foot of the Olympics, those mountains now immaculate with new snow after a summer of melt. Nothing much but me made noise. My oars dripped a line of water each stubborn stroke, circles falling back following small whirlpools both sides. The world was perfect. And I was in it. Not distracted, not jumping to the next crawler or ad, just a tiny sliver of the world with me pulling at the oars, gliding through it.

We’ve lost that, I think, now that I’m back on shore, back up at the house. We’ve let it slip through our fingers because we’re bored, we’re lonely, we’re forever looking for something to fill up the space between the last thing and the next thing. But it’s like calculus, the intervals get smaller and smaller, but they never become Now. Now is now. Some days, like today, I remember where to find it.

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