The Skeeter Daddle Diaries

A friend just invited me to join her and her ensemble for a night of reverie at the Stanwoodopolis Hotel’s fabled Karaoke Night. In case you are unfamiliar with the Hotel, count yourself one of the Lucky Ones. The Hotel, ever since I had the misfortune to stumble into the place back in 1977, is what my brother refers to as a Bucket of Blood. Meaning, not so much the violence of the joint, but just a sad watering hole for, well, for want of a better word, losers. Unfriendly losers. Losers with no jobs or jobs they hate. The kind of place where I can order a beer and move to a table in the corner with a notebook, only to find myself harassed by some beer bellied bully for literary pretension. That kind of place.

I once removed myself to their ‘beer garden’, a fenced off area behind the bar outside where the smokers congregate, only to have the first future cancer victim amble up to ask if I had a light. ‘Sorry’, I said, interrupted from my literary pretensions, ‘ I don’t smoke.’ “WHY NOT?’ he roared. This, essentially, sums up the camaraderie of the place. A little later another inebriated patron stumbled over to inform me the peanuts I was shelling from the big 55 gallon drum in the front room weren’t allowed back in the beer garden. ‘Thanks,’ I said, ‘appreciate the heads up.’ He was troubled when I kept shelling the nuts. ‘You can’t do that here,’ he said. ‘Got the message the first time,’ I replied, popping a couple and returning to my notebook. Pretty obviously he was considering some kind of intervention, but ultimately decided I was sober and he was probably going to take the worst of it. I half expected him to return with a posse. The nuts were only partially stale.

Add to these delightful personages the spectacle of drunken singing by folks who fancy themselves Friday night stars, the people who come back week after week for that small slice of the limelight, couraged up with shots of Jack Daniels and a beer chaser, encouraged by their friends. I know, let them have their fun, what business is it of mine? And of course, that is what I prefer to do, leave them to it, not become part of the audience or another singer in a pretend rock and roll band.

In full disclosure I have sung in the fabled Stanwoodopolis Hotel more than once. With the equally fabled South End String Band. It is a tough crowd, trust me. The usual patrons don’t like their haunt invaded by the likes of us and our own fans, not even for St. Pat’s Day. Like most Buckets of Blood, they prefer the company of their own tribe. And when you get right down to it, I guess I do too. The Band skipped the Hotel this St. Pats and I’m skipping the Karaoke Night too. I can always sing in the shower.

Old people like myself, I’ve noticed, love to talk about their ailments and maladies. My old man has made a pastime of medical recounting, nearly a body of literature regarding doctor visits and various pathologies. One night at a dinner party with old friends, ‘old’ being the operative word here, the kids of our friends finally interrupted the incredibly fascinating chronicle of knee injuries, dental woes, eyesight troubles expounded upon by their parents and begged to return to the internecine political wars we’d agreed to put aside and just enjoy our meal. Anything is better than listening to reports of operations, tooth extractions and gastro-intestinal triages, I guess.

I’ve been fairly lucky over the years, not much to report to my geriatric friends or you either. Until yesterday when, are you interested?, I took a whiz and about passed out with the pain. Felt like fire in the tunnel, since you asked. Urine like lava. Kinda scared me. Scared me even more when the next few trips to the bathroom were repeat performances. Usually I avoid doctors, clinics, hospitals, most of the medical apparatus, but damn, this seemed like something that couldn’t be ignored and hope it would just go away with clean living and a little time to heal.

Okay, I thought as I drove the 20 miles to the clinic in Stanwoodopolis, old age has finally come knocking. A couple hours later, one painful pee into the plastic cup and lab results that showed blood in the urine, my doc wrote a script for antibiotics, theorizing a possible infection in the kidney or bladder, if it doesn’t go away, start looking at cancer or prostate problems, chemo, radiation, probably update the will, make plans for cremation, say goodbye to friends and family.

Funny how sitting in a waiting room a few hours with people who exhibit all the malfunctions the human body is capable of can give you, oh, a slightly skewed tilt toward pessimism.

I left the clinic and drove to the pharmacy, stoic on my pity potty, telling myself I’d lived a good life, now it was time to pay the piper. While I waited for my antibiotics, I decided to take one more dreaded piss before the drive home and the pain was barely noticeable. Was I getting inured to pain? Toughened up? Accepting of my fate? After a long wait, I got my pills, took one with my own home remedy, a beer and hit the long road home, now a pitiable metaphor.

Got home still feeling a little sorry for myself, kissed the mizzus thinking, you know, for better or worse on those wedding vows, sat down and helped her clean crab for a late dinner. Last supper, maybe. Woe is me. But miracle of miracles, next bathroom expedition was normal. Pain was gone. Pissing was fun once again. Life was good. I would live! I would live to pee again! Pain free!

I assume, based on my vast medical experience as a graveyard weekend orderly, I passed a kidney stone. My lab tests came back this morning, all within acceptable parameters. I canceled my antibiotic regimen, told the funeral home to put the cremation on hold and said to hell with writing a will. Hopefully, for you and me both, this is the last medical story you’ll get from me for a very long while. Count yourself lucky. Me too!

A few years back I had a bank lady ask me if I minded telling her where the checks I infrequently deposited came from, inasmuch as they were fairly large sums and came from various government agencies. I told her I was a glass artist and these were 1% for Art project payments. The next time I cashed a check she informed me that — and she hoped I didn’t mind her frankness — well, she didn’t much care for the fact I made money that her taxes paid for. Waste of her hard earned money, she said.

I can only imagine how she might feel this year when the new Stanwoodopolis High School goes on-line, probably totally hacked off about whatever art project their committee will choose from the WA State Arts Commission roster, an absolute waste of her tax dollars. My bet is she voted against building a new school, the old one was good enough, just drag in some more trailers when needed.

But as I told her, I don’t think 1% for Art is a waste of money. Oh sure, we could build a cement block Soviet-style school, maybe skip carpeting and ballfields, cut out the performing arts addition, keep costs to a bare minimum and call it good enuff. Nevertheless, we’re the richest country in the world, maybe ought to build architecture that reflects our values and no, a warehouse for education isn’t what I think of as our values. Maybe our public buildings should inspire us, maybe reflect our best aspirations.

Art and architecture to some may seem more frivolity than necessity, but I beg to differ. Great civilizations are judged on their aesthetics more than just their wealth or the power of their military. We remember their sculpture, their music, their writing, their philosophies and yeah, their architecture. And the reason for that is that these represent their values and aspirations in a manner that is both aesthetic and ennobling. Good art tells us who we are as a community and as a society.

Great art and architecture does something more. They contribute to the creation of a public place in the true democratic sense, they give dignity to our workplaces, to our schools and our courthouses with the hope that we might, through the sheer power of a collective aesthetic, inspire in ourselves and our children a vision of possibilities and dreams and higher aspirations. Myself, I don’t consider that a waste of money. Course, I might be slightly prejudiced….

The past month I’ve been watching a pair of eagles down at the Head sitting on two eggs and finally seen those eggs hatch. Two white fluffy furballs, barely the size of a golf ball. The last week the two adults have been leaving the nursery more and more often, no doubt convinced the crib is safe so long as they keep an eye on it from their perches in the firs up above. Good spot for babysitting duties and hunting for food. Crab seems to be high on the menu.

Yesterday I stopped by with a camera and the parents were out of the nest up in the trees. This time I only spotted one chick. When the mom flew in with some rapid clicks, only one stumbled over to her, so I assume something happened to its sibling. Crows maybe or just starved to death, who knows?

Couple of days ago I went down to Cama Park to see the elephant seal pup sleeping on the beach. God only knows where the mom was, but the 500 pound seal was seemingly doing okay, cordoned off from the park humans so it could molt and finally slip back out to the sea. Nice to think of us humans being protective….

Today I was down by the garden and those pesky wabbits were hopping all over the yard. I hid behind a plum tree and caught an unsuspecting bunny by the legs. It screamed its bunny scream and immediately momma came loping around the corner, circled closer and closer to me holding her wiggling baby. I sat still, bunny in my paws, close to the ground, curious what she would do. I know, kind of a cruel experiment. You may think a rabbit is a cowardly creature, fearful, timid, but trust me when I tell you she finally raced over to me and gave the hand holding her kid a good bite. Served me right. I let her pup loose and the two of them went back to hiding in the garden where they could bite my beans and lettuce.

Last week I had found a hummingbird nest hidden in the bough of a cedar tree near our outhouse. For a few days I would walk by and the sitting adult would jet out of the nest and wait for me to pass. But one day I noticed no bird exiting. Or the next. Or finally the subsequent days after. I presume the parents were missing in action. Just left two tiny eggs in a nest lined with moss and lichen that would never hatch.

A couple hours ago I was back to the eagles’ nest. This time I spotted the second chick being fed morsels of a fish the parents had caught. Talk about relieved. I guess watching these guys for a few weeks had given me a keen paternal interest in their welfare. When I first arrived I found a fellow birdwatcher, a woman crouched in the brush. “Excuse me,” she called out, “I’m taking a piss.” I told her I was moving right along, no problem. We ended up watching the eagles together.

“You live around here?” I asked. She said she was living in her car. Her father had lived on the island, but he had died and her sister had sold the house and kept all the proceeds. Her sister, she told me, had run off with her husband and now her ex and her sibling were trying to have her committed to a mental institution. We watched the eagles for about half an hour, waxed philosophic about birds and cheating husbands, then bid adieu. I said good luck with all this. She said things would work out. I sure hope so, I said. But between you, me, the rabbits and the hummingbirds, I sort of doubt it.