The Skeeter Daddle Diaries

These are polarized times, as you readers of the Cracker undoubtedly know, enough so that the Editor is forever nervous about what grenade this Moonshine Wisdom and Wet Powder Wit column might drop in his lap. But you know… and I do too… these times call for courage. If men of conviction do not speak up, how can we look ourselves in the mirror when tyranny takes root? No, ladies and gentlemen, my allegiance is larger than just loyalty as a writer for the Crab Cracker. My allegiance is to justice. My allegiance is to truth. That is what a sardonic sense of humor represents. As I think you all know by now….

Today —despite the fears and admonitions of my fellow South Enders – the time has come to speak out. Damn the consequences! Oh, I know, we dare not weigh in on impeachment hearings, climate change, Middle East assassinations, trade tariffs and the upcoming elections. But we cannot stay silent on the burning issue of our time. No, trouble has come to our fair city, little Stanwoodopolis. I’m not talking about the decay of Viking Village, I do not refer to the suburban take-over up on Haggen Hill, I won’t even mention the need for a new library. I’m talking, of course, about a crematorium right here in River City, capital C, rhymes with T and stands for Trouble … if I can quote the Music Man.

And worse, as I’m sure you’ve all heard, the downtown Dust to Dust Ashes to Ashes Crematorium, fully approved by the City Council, now is applying to use the Hamilton Stack in order to meet the anticipated demands of its human incineration, their argument being that noxious aromas would be greatly mitigated with that higher stack. Pollutants would be carried out to Port Susan where only the seagulls might be troubled. And the occasional crabber.

It’s time to nip this in the bud. This isn’t just about carbon footprints. This is carbon whole body prints. This is Grandma Jenny going up in smoke, wafting on the offshore breeze down as far as the South End for heaven’s sake. Say no to the Hamilton Stack Incinerator! Call your mayor, call your city planner, call the lady with the alligator purse, but call somebody before they all go up in smoke! Do it for a Carbon Neutral Future! Do it for the Pioneer Cemetery! Do it for Grandma!
[Paid for by the Committee to Stop the Hamilton Stack Human Incinerator]

G

Now that the edict has been passed down requiring us South Enders to quarantine ourselves, concerned friends and relatives call or email to inquire if we’re okay, worried that prolonged isolation down here with nothing but the beach and the woods confining us to a primitive existence, well, it might lead to, oh, mental instability. Or worse.

I tell them we’re fine, we’re all right, we’re really okay, nothing to worry about, we’ll manage just hunky dory. Got plenty to do here, wood to saw and split and haul, repairs to be made, garden to be planted, hardly enough hours in the day to get it all done. Don’t worry about us. Life goes on pretty much the same as always.

What I don’t mention is the guitar in the shack. The one I’m building while I’m also repairing the last one I built. Today I tore apart the first one I made, popped the walnut back and went to work on the guts. Three of them are sitting in various stages of assembly — or disassembly — on the tables down there. Parts are strewn from front door to back, necks are lying around, pickguards are being varnished, tailpieces are drilled, strings are everywhere. I know, it probably looks like the Mad Hatter’s luthier shop. But … nothing to worry about. I’m fine. Busy, as you can see.

Do I need a 5th homemade guitar? Why do you ask? It’s just a harmless hobby. Something to keep myself occupied. No, I don’t think it’s an obsession exactly. An addiction? C’mon. It’s hardly an addiction. Okay, no, I guess I’m not sure why I started this last one. Boredom maybe. One more chance to get it right, this guitar building. You know, learn from the first four mistakes. Improvement through practice. Yeah, I see that the last one was worse than the first three, so what’s your point? I’m repairing that one, aren’t I? Maybe when I’m done, it’ll be better. A lot better. Maybe so much better I’ll wish I hadn’t starting building the fifth one. Okay, I know, that’s what I said about the first one when I was half done with the second and already tearing down the first one but it did sound better and all right, I’m inside that one for the third time and now there are two more not quite done and … what? It seems like I’m going backwards? Does it? No, I don’t agree. I have two that are finished. What? Yeah, I tore those apart too but … what’s your point?

No, I’m perfectly fine. Just got a little hobby to while away the pandemic plague. If you’re interested in purchasing an instrument, just say so, I can probably have one ready by the time the virus has run its course. Got to use your fiscal stimulus money on something, right? I’d make you a deal on multiples. Take the whole lot, big savings. Very big savings. Might even save me.

Easter, a time for resurrection. And so our very devout Pastor-in-Chief has declared that the economy will be risen by Easter. Pews will fill, church bells will peal, congregations will congregate, the plague will have passed by our doorways. A miracle, a miracle! Hallelujah, a Miracle! The man could walk on water! The man could feed multitudes with a single loaf of bread! The man can stop a pandemic in its tracks with a single utterance! Truly, is this not a Man among Men. Verily, is this not the Second Coming?

Some of my friends think maybe he hasn’t been sent by God to save Mankind. These naysayers think he might be delusional, narcissistic, possibly insane. Obviously they were not followers of The Apprentice on prime time TV all those years, week after week passing judgement from on high, a cross between Judge Judy and Dr. Oz with a smidgeon of the gang at American Idol. The man’s a billionaire, so what if he doesn’t need to prove it by showing my pals his tax statements? He’s rich, he’s a playboy, his name is on really big buildings, he can do what he wants with beautiful women. If God was going to send another Moses, trust me on this one, he’d send Donald J. Trump. After all, the man’s favorite book is the Bible. Both of them, new and old, with too many of his favorite passages in there to name just one.

When he says he has a hunch those anti-malaria drugs will cure coronavirus and stop this pandemic completely, so what if the so-called experts shake their pessimistic heads. His hunch, in case you weren’t paying attention, comes from the Source. John the Baptist might have gotten dreams from the Lord, Donald gets hunches. You want an affidavit? You need a notary public? The man is an emissary, I’m telling you, the man is a prophet. If you think science is going to save your ass, wake up! Donald Trump is going to save your ass. Pretty soon. He’s got that antidote coming and when that gets distributed to even you non-believers, you doubting Thomases, this Kung Flu is going to meet its master capital M and by Easter the economy will be roaring back.

My buddies can chuckle all they want, but mark my words, those steeples will be ringing with Donald’s praises by Easter, bodies pressed close once again, hands will be shaken, hugs will be given and I suspect the offerings from thankful parishioners will rise up too in passed plates. Easter, a time for resurrection. A time to give thanks. To God, of course, but let’s be honest here, mostly to Trump. Can we have an amen?

These are hard times in America. The President said we’re at war as he opted to use the Defense Production Act to force industries to start making ventilators and probably hepa-vacuums for Mar-a-Lago. When the going gets tough, the tough talk tough. Kung Flu. Chinavirus. The war will be waged by name calling, apparently.

Someone must have whispered in the President’s ear that the public thought his initial response to the pandemic was pan-anemic. No big deal, the big guy said, just a hoax perpetrated by the media and his enemies on the left. But someone mentioned the tide would turn against him when cadaver carts rolled through American streets collecting the dead so he changed his tune. Asked how he thought he and his administration handled the pandemic, he gave himself a 10. Great Job, Donny! he might as well have crowed, giving himself a pat on those huge padded shoulders. Daily he rolls out ‘the team’, all jostling for camera space despite the admonition to adhere to ‘social distancing’. If any of these folks develop symptoms for kung flu, well, so much for the fireside chats.

Every day we get the updates, rosy scenarios of tests available to everyone soon, tomorrow, pharmaceuticals that appear very promising, ventilators coming immediately … then invariably some expert contradicts the President. No, not tomorrow, sir, no, not very soon at all. Happy talk is great. Over at Fox News the happy talk is non stop. What epidemic? That phony cold?

Meanwhile the economy has ground to a near halt. Planes are grounded, buses run mostly empty, stores are shuttered, restaurants are boarded up, bars don’t open, streets are desolate, cities are ghost towns. Concerts are banned, public gatherings forbidden, borders closed, schools closed down, even funerals are taboo. The stock market keeps going down down down. Trillions will be spent on corporate bailouts, unemployment compensation, tax relief, medical remedies, checks to all of us. Nobody but a self-deluding moron thinks tomorrow will be a better day. Somebody needs to get tested … and not just for the chinavirus.