The Skeeter Daddle Diaries

The South End String Band didn’t start out planning to be a band — they were mostly a back porch drinking society with music as a viable excuse to offer their wives for staying out til after midnight. What most of them didn’t know was how grateful the mizzus was to have a peaceful evening to herself. Well, at least until Shelly joined the band.

For years the boys hauled out their guitars and banjos, pulled their fiddles off the wall and strung up all those mandolin strings, met up down at the South End Grange Hall where Tommy the fiddler was Master. In the beginning they were all much more proficient on the jug than on their own instruments, but as often happens with practice, they got better. And as they got more proficient, they drank a little less and began to talk playing in public. When the South End Historical Society asked them to perform for their annual salmon bake fundraiser, they jumped on the opportunity. “Can’t pay you anything,” Edith Wonkszeski told the boys, “but we’ll feed you. And the beers are on us.” That sounded more than fair, Tommy told her and warned her to stock up on those beers, you might lose money on this band.

And so the newly named South End String Band went public. If they liked drinking and strumming, they loved live performances for an appreciative audience twice as much as both put together. Trouble was, they soon found out, none of the boys could sing outside a shower worth a hoot or a holler. Billy on the banjo tried, but he sort of talked his way through, not really sang. And then Shelly came up to them after a gig at the Mabana Sunset Villa Nursing Home and said, “You ought to give me a listen.”
Which they did. She came to the next practice wearing a low cut cowgirl dress and even if she’d sung out of tune, the boys knew she’d be their new vocalist. It didn’t hurt either she could outdrink every manjack of them.

The South End String Band still performs, but after a couple of divorces, the personnel have shifted frequently. Shelly fronts the band now and she’s pretty much the last remaining original member. You can always find a banjo picker in the backwash here, but not another Shelly. The Band practices at her cabin these days and when the night winds down past midnight, Shelly shows the boys the door and always says, “Jug’s empty, boys, time to face the music.” It would be funnier if it wasn’t so godawful true.

Don’t ask me why, but lately I seem to be shopping with animals. Mostly dogs on leashes with owners who don’t mind bringing their fleas into the deli. I’m sure they’re what we call these days ‘Service Animals’. The majority of folks with these critters don’t seem handicapped, but then, who am I to judge? We all got our issues, some crippling, some not. Who knows, I might need a guide ferret myself before too long.

The other day I was in the local grocery’s produce section, squeezing celery, checking melons, test driving the rutabagas when this guy walks up next to me with a parrot on his shoulder. He wasn’t shopping for much since he didn’t have a cart or a basket. Maybe the bird was the one doing the shopping. “Crackers are next aisle over,” I said, just to be helpful. And to get him and Polly away from contaminating my vegetables, parrots being known to carry a fatal disease us homo sapiens can catch. Bluebeard came closer, obviously pleased someone was noticing his bird perched on his shoulder.

“I take Morris everywhere,” he beamed, proud as punch, which, I thought, was exactly what he needed. All this yahoo was missing was a peg leg, a Jolly Roger on his tricorn and a treasure map tattoo that showed the gold in the dairy section.

“I like to leave my animals back at the farm,” I said. “Something about food and bird flu makes me squeamish.” Before he could go Aaaarrhh, I wheeled down the line. I could come back for veggies, I figured, after Cap’n Hook moved on.

“Bite me,” a voice called out. I whirled around and the parrot repeated it. “Bite me, bite me.” My pirate looked mightily pleased with himself, no doubt having spent hours teaching Polly this witticism. I shook my head sadly. Sinbad grinned, snapped me a salute and headed for the fruit section. It’s a strange world … and not just on the South End.

Well, buckaroos, it’s that time once again when old Skeeter doffs his battered hat and says adios for awhile. He’s got a little business in the Dairy State, Wisconsin, maybe check out Gov. Walker’s run for the White House, maybe not. He’ll be gone a week so if you need a Skeeter fix (and I know you don’t), scroll down to the beginning of this blogsite and start over. I don’t remember writing those early entries so I suspect you won’t remember reading em either. 1500 of em, that’s about 200 a day for the time I’m gone, ought to keep you busy. And best of all, NO TEST when I return. You really want to make it interesting, run em through Fact-Check and Snopes.

I read today that between our two political parties, only one really believes in fact-checking at all. The other thinks the media lies to them, why would they believe in checking for veracity. Might just as well believe what you want, right? Easier too. Kinda time-consuming doing the verifications. Truth, really just a relative concept. We got faith based science now, faith based charter schools, faith based politics.

But Skeeter’s Diaries? The Gospel, all of it, you got my word…. Okay, not the Word, like in the Word of God, but close enough for the South End. Where Reality is slightly shifty.

The Southendomish Casino celebrated its Grand Opening last week. The ‘Big Hearted Little Casino” advertised itself as the gambling emporium with the most generous slots in Puget Sound. Unfortunately, a typo in the Gazette brought unwanted scrutiny from the Sheriff’s department and the gambling commissioner, but the next issue’s correction cleared the air. SLOTS. Probably a lot of disappointed johns … but it IS a gambling joint, not a brothel.

Even so a small group from the Little Chapel in the Ravine, led by Pastor Paul, picketed noisily in the parking lot until Casino Security asked them to protest somewhere NOT on their private property. Trudy Hawkins and her husband Bobby lobbied to stand their ground against the Devil’s Playground, but Pastor Paul argued for setting up at the highway where their placards would be just as effective where cars turned in to the casino’s fresh blacktop entry. WOULD JESUS GAMBLE HIS PAYCHECK??? DON’T BET AGAINST HELL! An hour of marching in circles on the shoulder, Trudy needed to use a restroom and so did Wanda Jenkins, but damned if they were going to go into the casino to relieve themselves. Pastor Paul, always the mediator, reckoned they’d made their point anyway so the little band of righteous warriors broke for a potty stop. By then the Casino parking lot was crammed with their neighbors and friends hoping to cash in on generous slots and inexpensive bar specials.

The South End doesn’t have a patent on Sin, but we sure welcomed a place to house it. At least the first few days….. Generous or not, the casino always won over time, although plenty of folks happily tell me they’re lucky at the tables. The Laws of Probability don’t apply apparently, or else their bookkeeping is sloppy. I don’t think the Southendomish are going to get rich, not so far from the freeway. But I’m betting they’ll do okay even WITH the folks who never lose.