The Skeeter Daddle Diaries

I bought my first house in a government auction. I’d moved to Seattle and Gomorrah to reconnect with my wife at the time after a summer’s hiatus from each other who’d connected instead with a new boyfriend who she lived with while I lived with a houseful of University students who mostly majored in drugs. My wife and her beau were intent on making a fortune in real estate so they’d gotten licenses and were working as realtors. Don’t ask me why, but my missuz — let’s call her Alice — decided we should buy a house together, live in it long enough to defer capital gains, then sell it for the profit and repeat the above until we were rich.

My roommates were people who stole my food and beer, never washed a dish until there were none clean and then only the dish they would use. I was ready for a new place to live and a house of my own looked more than okay. Not having much money and virtually no sources of income, the pickings were poor. But Alice found a HUD house for sale down in the ghetto, a large two story house with no distinctive features other than a hardwood floor that had been ‘rehabbed’ top to bottom and was offered up for bid at a minimum price of $18,000. We bid $24,000 and won, according to our realtor who specialized in HUD houses, by a few bucks and change. A mortgage company his real estate office must’ve owned gave us a loan and we became homeowners for the first time.

Alice stayed with her boyfriend/business partner and I rented rooms to friends and weirdoes and psychopaths at $50 a month. It paid the mortgage of $180 a month and it kept life interesting at a time of my life that welcomed demented and derelict diversion beyond the dreary bottom feeding neighbors that surrounded me in my introduction to true urban depravity. Life, I thought, certainly can take some odd turns. I looked at myself as a character in the modern novel I planned to pen, no doubt a tragedy, but hey, an interesting one. The house, I gradually realized, tied me to my wrecked marriage, to a city on the skids, to my own broken dreams, to a real estate fantasy I wanted no part of and on and on through chapter after chapter.

I could see a bad ending coming. I could even see myself taking the ride down, accepting my Fate as some kind of Lord Jim contrition, blaming myself, becoming bitter and no wiser. It might be a good book, but hell, it didn’t look like a good life. Maybe the squalor and the crime and the low life neighbors were the rewards for a life of laziness and dreamy inattention. Maybe I was in some subliminal atonement for my own failings. Maybe this was Just Desserts.

But I’m not much for martyrdom. I’m not much for contrition either, it turns out. I guess, thinking myself a writer by inclination, I decided to write a happier ending even if it made for a second rate novel. I’ve heard it said that happiness is overvalued. But I’ve never heard it from those folks who are happy. And you won’t hear it from me. Life isn’t a novel and us would-be writers would be wise to remember that.

The other morning I heard an NPR no doubt woke commentator prescribe a healthy dose of something, anything, upbeat to jumpstart our mornings, you know, set a more positive spin on the day, one that might last past noon. As a morning reader of two newspapers and multiple internet newsfeeds, I’m the poster child for beginning my day with mostly bleak harbingers for the morning, noon and probably afternoon, everything from ICE raids to indictments of the President’s detractors, Cat 5 hurricanes to vaccine deniers, gerrymandering to Gaza, on and on, basically doomscrolling for a less than cheerful breakfast. Even Dear Abby is consistently depressing. Cue the kitten videos, I guess. Or the makeup and clothing Influencers.

Maybe it’s time to mix a jigger or three of whiskey in that early morning cuppa joe, take the sharp edges off reality, give a good mood a fighting chance, probably need a nap early in the afternoon and then reload on the whiskey to plow through the evening, won’t need more coffee.

Outside our window the world really isn’t all that bleak or depressing. Sure, the mail comes late, it sometimes rains, occasionally I have to make that hellish drive up north for groceries and supplies, the power goes out in windstorms — but otherwise life is pretty peachy. Almost a sin to be depressed. Hellfire, it IS a sin to be anything but cheerful.

I didn’t move to the edge of a continent, the end of an island, the last vestige of the American Century to drown myself in the tears of the doomsayers. Maybe I didn’t reach escape velocity from Reality, but … I gave it a damn good shot. And if anyone thinks I’m plummeting back to terra firma, think again. Reality is in large part our own making — just ask most of us artists or musicians. Paint the world as you want it, then step inside the canvas. Oh, and don’t let those brushes dry out — it’s an ongoing process. Maybe every day. Like the NPR lady said….

I was doing a little supper shopping today at Island Foods up the road. Had my little baby cart half filled with about anything that didn’t seem double-the-price and fell in behind a lady whose overflowing groceries indicated a resident who didn’t worry much about little things like prices or specials or coupon discounts. If she’d been sporting a mink coat, I wouldn’t have expected less.

Tina, the checkout clerk on register #4, the one labeled ‘Utsalady’ as a nod to our island’s sketchy history, was scanning items faster than a TSA agent on meth. She turned to Marie Antoinette and said in her usual cheerful greeting, ‘How you doing today?’ By this time Zsa Zsa had a smart phone in her bejeweled ear and ignored Tina as any High Lady would when an impudent commoner affronted her status. M’lady was now occupied with a conversation about the horrific traffic resulting from a fender bender we’d both apparently passed earlier. It had been a terrible inconvenience to her schedule for Tea Time.

They say time is money, but they don’t say it on the South End. Tina, who lives half a mile north of me in a small ghetto subdivided with a zoning variance that made some commissioner’s friends rich, well, Tina makes minimum wage plus a buck. Time, I seriously doubt, is mostly money to her. It’s a bad back, varicose veins and a wrist brace for her carpal tunnel syndrome that will soon doom her fabulous career. Half the people she checks out never say boo to her. A quarter are on their cellphone. A few are just unfriendly like she was price gouging them.. And the rest don’t see or hear her, she’s just the checkout girl.

Tina has a husband, Billy, used to be a contractor before he crushed a disk in his spine that ended his career. He gets some disability and between that and Tina’s largesse, they make the payments on their double-wide, but barely. It’s a scrape every damn month, but I’ve never heard her complain. She’s glad to have this job. “You have a nice day!” she smiles to Her Majesty who’s still chattering on her cell. Tina turns to me and asks happily, “How’s it going, Skeeter?” If she and I weren’t happily married, I swear to God I’d propose to her on the spot.

So three of us yahoos decided it was High Time to go over to Pt. Townsend on the Peninsula and attend the Wooden Boat Festival there, us being South End boat builders and all. We had a 12 foot Pelican sailboat, plenty sound enough for the shipping channels of the Straits, we figured, so provisioned with a box of donuts, we set off in the fog. We could hear the container ships booming past but couldn’t see them — and worse, I’m sure they couldn’t see us either, even with radar. The Trident nuclear sub surfaced close by, way close enough to see, an evil black fish that no doubt hadn’t picked us up as anything more than flotsam.

By afternoon the sun had broken through and we found ourselves near the lighthouse of what we thought was Fort Worden, just outside Pt. Townsend, so we sailed south and came upon another lighthouse and now we realized we’d mistaken our location so we continued sailing around Indian and Marrowstone Islands well into the afternoon and finally arrived at Pt. Townsend way late. With a return trip yet to come …. And the fog threatening to descend again.

We ditched the boat on the beach and hoofed into the marina. Whereupon we come upon a Pelican in the show, the homeliest boat moored up, so naturally I asked what the hell kind of duck is this thing you got berthed?? Which prompted a lively response from its proud owners and after they’d settled down a bit, I asked what was it they liked about an ugly scow like this? The water was frothing at near boil but one of the sailorboys said, “I’ll tell you what’s great about a Pelican. It can’t be sunk!”

“Can’t be sunk?” I howled. “Can’t be sunk?? Really?” And he proceeded to tell the tale of a Pelican that had capsized the last summer off the coast of Lummi Island in a storm and when help arrived, two men were rowing it while it was completely full of water! Captain Larry was practically dancing a jig on the dock pointing at me and smirking. “That was him! He flipped his boat up there last year. It’s him. It’s him!!”

“Will you pipe down a minute,” I commanded, realizing my fun with these buccaneers was over and we were embarked on different seas of mirth. “What color was the boat? Where exactly? How’d they get to shore?” To which they pretty accurately recounted my sad little nautical escape that previous summer and so I fessed up. “But,” I said, “we basically sunk. We were completely under water. More flotation under the decks,” I advised. “And a motor that won’t drag the transom down like mine did.”

Well, it’s a small world apparently, and we might have stayed for some partying and sea shanties and late night sailor lies, but the fog had returned and we still had to head back out into the shipping lanes. We went to the marina store for supplies, ascertained we had $8 between all three of us and now, a Hard Decision needed to be made. Should we buy a navigational chart? A compass? Something to eat? $8 leaves not a whole lot of options.

Being the Salty Dogs we were, we made the Hard Choice, the one a less experienced crew might eschew, the one not in the Sailor’s Manual. We grabbed a 6 pack of beer and sailed into the sunset — well, if the fog hadn’t blotted it out —three mariners moving darkly into wooden boat mythology, fearless as idiots in a dangerous dream, never to be seen in Pt. Townsend again. No doubt they recount that voyage yearly at the Festival. “Aye, the lads are out there still,” they whisper in hushed voices around the beach campfires, “ sailing in the boat that cannot sink. God rest their souls….”

I remember the first time I heard one of our band’s songs come on the radio, just filled me with such a surge of pure adolescent joy that I worried I might break out in zits. When the Beatles heard their first song over the airwaves, so the story goes, they were all driving in the same car and pulled over to the side of the road to listen, gobsmacked, exactly how I felt. Not that we were in the same league as the mopheads.

But … if you had told me when I was younger that one day I would be in a band playing an instrument and singing, I’d have told you to back off your meds. I didn’t play an instrument and I had never sung anything. We started up the band back in 2002, a bunch of us on the South End getting together on the back porch to play a little music and drink a few beers. Some of us couldn’t play an instrument. Hell, about a third of us couldn’t. But we learned. And over the next couple of years we even performed in public, admittedly just some parking lot impromptus and the Tyee Store and Elger Bay, then a concert to Save the Grange that drew 700 people on a cold rainy February night in 2004. We saved the Grange and we became a real band.

The South End String Band still exists, still plays the area, still gets radio time. We’ve changed personnel a few times and of the four of us survivors, three were in the original lineup. Not bad after a quarter century. I play the 5 string banjo and hard to believe even now, I’m the lead singer. Who’d have dreamed?

Like a lot of things in this surprising life, I would be hard pressed to tell you I’m a musician. Same thing with art, another serendipitous detour totally unexpected. What starts out as a lark, a hobby, a sideline … ends up defining who you are. Do I think of myself as a music man? Well, it’s like Lynda Barry, a cartoonist I thought was incredibly funny, told an interviewer (when he asked if she considered herself an artist) it took her a long time to accept that mantle. She just drew year after year, got her cartoons published, made a living and finally she said she had to admit to herself that yeah, ya know what, I’m an artist. Let the critics decide if she was a good one or not.

So … we didn’t make the Top 40. We don’t make a living playing old time fiddle music. We aren’t the Beatles. We didn’t make the Big Time. But … when I look back at this life, I have to smile that occasionally we got to play for an audience and that yeah, ya know what, I got to be a musician. Turn up that radio! We might be up next.