The Skeeter Daddle Diaries

Yesterday on the South End the thermometer hit 100 plus degrees. I know this is the banana belt, but even so, this is scary stuff. And today the meteorologists are running around with their hair on fire, yelling Excessive Heat Warning to any and all of us who think 80 degrees is hot as a Hell in a propane truck explosion. Today, they predict, we’ll hit 105 and Seattle and Gomorrah will peak at 111, melting freeways and turning bridges to goo.

Now, God forbid anyone politicize this any more than critical race relations, no global warming talk here, just a small blip on the meteorological record book, a mere 10 plus degrees warmer than ANY TEMPERATURE RECORDED ANY TIME OF THE YEAR EVER! Well, since the dinosaurs…. Just in the history of homo sapiens. I’m going to run down to the garden and plant watermelons and pineapples, fifty fifty I get a harvest. Next year I’ll plant papayas and banana palms, all kinds of exotic tropical flowers and wait for the anteaters and monkeys to migrate north, new garden vermin.

Triple digit temperatures on the South End, in case you live in Tucson or Yuma, aren’t exactly normal here, about as likely as rain that is half frogs and toads. I’m not one of those people who see climate change in every unusual rainstorm, hurricane, heat wave or cold snap. And no way am I going to argue with my neighbor with the historic TRUMP 2020 sign on his tree that will no doubt stay there til it rots or he can replace it with the TRUMP 2028 banner, but … geez, it’s hard to watch the world heating up every year this past decade or two without acknowledging that maybe, just maybe, even probably, all right, definitely, this greenhouse we call Earth is growing hotter. More hurricanes, more hundred year floods, more historic droughts, and yeah, triple digit heat waves on even the South End.

I get that one party is beholden to the gas and oil and coal industry. So I understand they’ll fight tooth and nail to keep digging and drilling and burning hydrocarbons and deny the remotest possibility of any of that being responsible for our heat wave this week. I get that. Doesn’t say much for profiles in courage but after the past few years I think we know that courage left D.C. on a fast coal burning belching train long long ago. Me, I don’t have kids, don’t have to worry about a future much beyond a couple more decades at best. But the folks with a stake in the future? You tell me. That stake seems more like one to the heart. In a couple of days the temperatures should return to the old normal. But not mine. History will not be kind. Course, we just won’t teach it, I guess.

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I’m planting the third succession of beans and peas down in the garden today. This year I built a fence inside the outer fence, a double perimeter for the deer and rabbits that breached the outer barrier last year. I’m considering a moat, possibly a security system, and last resort, my granddad’s old 16 gauge shotgun. If I have to channel Elmer Fudd, so be it.

For those of you who don’t have vegetable gardens and even those who refuse to eat ‘rabbit food’, you can stop reading right now. I’m not going to pull a Come to Jesus and Jacama on you, but I will tell you a garden is one very easy connection to the earth. To the Land. To what was once, before the spinning jenny and the I-phone, as close to a cosmic umbilical as I can imagine. You know, not counting sex.

A garden is optimism shaded by luck. Bad weather, pests, varmints, blight — but you plant it and hope for the best. You learn to share with those pesky wabbits, with the crows and the deer, the slugs and the snails, hopefully with the neighbors too. You weed, you water, you pray to the gods of weather. And you curse, you howl, you plant a second time. Or a third. This is the world, the universe, the big roulette wheel, the game of chance and the luck of the draw. You succeed and you fail and mostly it’s out of your hands.

Yeah, you can buy potatoes at the Kroger, corn from the vegetable stands on the highway, frozen peas from Costco, fresh tomatoes … but don’t let me go postal on fresh tomatoes, a fruit the agri-assholes have completely ruined. Gardening is farming on the micro-scale. It’s maddening and it’s hard work. But … I wouldn’t stop for anything. Growing some of what we eat is a joy, pure and simple. Well, maybe not so simple.

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I was chatting it up with a couple of fellow artists down at the South End Galleria this week, comparing notes on aesthetic strategies, bizness practices, encounters with philistines and other assorted moral hazards of the art trade. The sculptor among us avowed how he chose to eschew my public art avenue and regaled us with tales of clients and looky loos, folks who might suggest that rather than pay full price they could check Ebay or Etsy for fabulous deals, as if that original stone carving might be had from WalMart for hefty discounts.

We artists love displaying our wounds and scars from the Culture Wars. I mentioned how I lacked bizness acumen and so public art took me out of those sorts of encounters … to which our gallery owner mentioned being a finalist three times for public art commissions only to lose. ‘No prizes for runner-up,’ I said. ‘No Miss Congeniality either.’ Afterwards I started adding up my own losses over the years, something around a dozen. You get a small stipend for a design, maquettes, plane fare, motel, car rental, etc., usually less than what you spend and zero for your work. It’s a tough racket and after a couple of second place finishes, plenty of artists quit throwing their hats in the ring. Me, I got plenty of hats.

My first loss, a fire station entry against a famous Seattle glass artist with a buddy on the jury who gave him helpful hints at our site visit, left me feeling like the game was rigged. But instead of quitting I took my 4 foot by 3 foot glass model, cut a hole in my shop wall and installed it in front of my work table, a wound I could salt every damn day, a reminder that I needed to up my game.

What I’ve learned over a few decades of competition is that it isn’t always fair, it is sometimes rigged, the juries are occasionally a sham, an opponent may actually be better than you and lose … or vice versa. Art in the public arena is a bloodsport. I try to accept the losses and thank my lucky stars for the commissions I win. Mostly I’m glad I stuck it out. And best of all, nobody’s going on Ebay and finding a cheap substitute. Yet.

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Back in the Paleolithic Era I used to put my allowance of 50 cents a week into 25 dollar U.S. Savings Bonds, something my folks, being Depression Era kids, wanted us to learn, the habit of thriftiness. And … a little economics too. Like how interest rates work and our little pile of money would grow bigger if we just skipped candy and comic books. Later we would buy IRA’s and CD’s, etc. and when interest rates were high, money accrued rapidly … assuming inflation didn’t eat it faster.

After the Great Recession the Federal Reserve Board, those watchdogs of the economy, drove interest rates into the ground. My little savings accounts weren’t going to grow much when the interest was point something. You wanted to make money, boy, you invested in the stock market where the Fed hoped you’d stimulate the economy back to health. Great if you like to gamble, not so great if you’re old and cautious like myself. That Dow Jones or the S&P 500 or the Nasdaq drop 40% like it did in recent memory, you maybe won’t live long enough to see that money come back. Needless to say, a decade and a half after the interest rates bottomed out near zero, I’m not a big fan of the Fed. My pals who threw the dice on the Dow, they love the Fed. The rich are getting richer, way of the world. The poor? Well, they might as well bury their paltry savings accounts in tin cans behind the garage.

Now we got cryptocurrency. Bitcoins and a bunch of wannabee digital monies, the currencies of the future, they say, and a chance, if you buy low, to watch your money mushroom exponentially, legal gambling, oh boy, and a golden opportunity for untold riches. Without working! What’s not to like? Except, of course, bitcoin yesterday dropped 50% from its recent high. Nothing I like more than volatility in my money and I suspect most CEO’s probably feel the same way. Might as well use 2×4’s for currency. Lumber prices are spiking but futures are dropping. My kind of legal tender: legal timber. Which, now that I think about it, I have. My house. Times get tough, we tear off the back bedroom and sell the lumber. Bitcoins, good luck. The only thing backing that currency up is gullibility. Apparently there’s plenty of that.

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Nothing I like much more than a good intra-denominational dogfight. The Southern Baptists are squabbling down at their convention in Nashville, mostly over abortion strategies. The Catholics are drawing up papers to ban politicians who vote for abortion rights from receiving the Eucharist. If that seems like religion is crossing over into Caeser’s territory, you’re probably on the money. Biden is Catholic and Biden is pro-abortion rights. In the eyes of a majority of the church’s bishops, he’s just right of a spawn of Satan. Or a pawn. Or … well, you know what they mean.

Churches and their doctrines, man oh man, they just dig their heels in and resist anything that might seem Enlightened to a secular yahoo like myself. Women priests? How long did that take em? And some religions, well, God made Man first and then took a rib to make Woman and if that doesn’t prove superiority over the fairer sex, what does? Gays are a thorny subject for most of them. Love thy neighbor, love your fellow man, but whoa, don’t take it literally, buddy, that’s Abomination and a one way ticket to Hell. The rest of society seems to have moved on, but the Bible Thumpers are still parsing Leviticus, maybe skipping the injunctions not to wear dissimilar fabrics or eat certain foods. And that part about stoning to death those who lay man with man, thou shalt not kill doesn’t apply apparently.

The ban on communion seems okay to me. Ex-communication is fine too. My question really is why would folks want to be in a religion that is exclusionary, especially based on the politics of the day. You folks gonna deny the Eucharist for the Senators who support the death penalty? Unless, of course, it’s for homosexual abominations. In which case, pick your rock and have at it. So when all these good and righteous folks demand to have church back in the schools or the courtroom or the government, we need to ask them, which church you want to let in. And if the answer is none of the others, just ours, well … maybe you see the problem. If you don’t, wait til the Supreme Court decides Roe v Wade one more time now that most of them are Catholics who would probably prefer to take communion, not be banned from it.

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