The Skeeter Daddle Diaries

When we first pow-wowed about retaking Hutchison Park away from the punk kids who used the hidey-hole for their illicit goings-on, I met with the woman who ran the Island County Parks. Me and a fellow artist who was also involved with myself in transforming the Old Blue Building by the tennis courts, another project with County. We had Big Visions back then, let me tell you, a merry band of artists who might do aesthetic make-overs of parks and ugly county buildings. We’d built the Visitor Center and Art Park, we’d established a public art program for the schools, we were on our high horses and hoo boy, we thought the future was so bright we bought shades.

This would have been 2007. A few of us gathered in the overgrown parking lot of the park to brainstorm how we might improve the little 5 acres, make it the Crown Jewel of the South End park system. Okay, the only jewel in the South End park system. We discussed some tree cutting, blackberry removal, possible new plantings, grass seeding, picnic tables, the usual park management stuff. At some point it was made clear that a perimeter fence would be necessary, by code apparently, chain link. Thinking out loud I wondered if maybe we could install our own fence, an art fence of sorts, maybe something that would de-institutionalize the thing and my fellow artist asked if we did that, could funds that might have been used for the cyclone fence be allocated to our fence.

Maybe it was a bad day for the Park Chief, I don’t know. Things had been going uneventfully enough, ideas thrown out, some rejected, some considered, the usual give and take, but all of us there to make improvements. My cohorts in the South End String Band had agreed to be caretakers, lawnmowers, tree trimmers and the like. The art crowd would throw in. All in all a fine collaboration, maybe even a paradigm for government partnering with the community. But the mention of money, the crass notion of it, the grimy reference, well, Ms. Park Lady came unglued. ‘You’re all alike,’ she fairly shouted, ‘always looking for the money. Well, that’s not how it works. We’ll put in a chain link fence and that’s that.’

My artist pal was stunned into near stuttering incoherence, tried to make it clear she wasn’t grubbing for the pesos, she only meant …. But our Park Lady was only cranking up. No, she was sick and tired of this game of trying to profit off them, sick … and … tired …of these self serving ….

‘Whoa’, I said, hands up in a gesture of Stop This. ‘Let me get something straight here. We’re the ones volunteering our time. We’re the ones not being paid to stand here right now. We’re the ones who will be mowing and landscaping. All we asked was would there be some possibility of using money that was intended for park upgrades for maybe art that would substitute. It’s done all the time in the public art realm. Same budget, just pay for materials. If that’s your idea of greed ….’

It was. That was 16 years ago. We’ve added some sculpture, we’ve planted a few shrubs and trees, we’ve maintained that park mowing and bucking fallen trees, created new trails, added a phone booth little library and since then we’ve never seen the Park Chief again. Okay with me. I’m a little busy grubbing for money elsewhere.

Back in the less consumer-driven days of early Christmas, we South Enders would hang our stockings by the chimney with great care. Mostly so they wouldn’t catch fire…I mean, we used that chimney for heat. How Santa was going to get down the brick chute without scorching those red pajamas of his, us young’uns didn’t have a clue. So we worried about St. Nick. Well, mostly we worried he wouldn’t leave us anything at all while he was hustled off to the nearest burn unit. Our parents told us not to lose any sleep over it – Santa probably had fire retardant uniforms. Oh, right, like Kris Kringle moonlighted as a chemist half the year.

But Santa always did seem to find the South End on Christmas … which didn’t help to explain the half empty stockings and the paucity of presents under the tree every year at our house. We kids just figured Santa had checked his stupid list, probably twice, and we were blacklisted on the NAUGHTY side once again. We even used to leave cookie bribes and a jug of something savory to drink when he showed up. It was odd how the jug was always empty and still, the stockings were sadly deficient. Pa always said the reindeer must’ve been thirsty and we’d say, hey, if Donder and Blitzen could find their way here and down a burning chimney with a 6 inch hole to the woodstove, how come St. Nick couldn’t find us? And Ma would give Pa a dirty look and say, something was Blitzen all right, but it wasn’t the reindeer….

Santa finds the South End pretty easily now, I’m telling you. Come Christmas morning it looks like a China R Us down the middle of the living room, barely room to squeeze near the tree. Nowadays we don’t leave Santa a plate of cookies. He expects an ATM machine and a Visa Card. Christmas down on the South End lasts and lasts – about 12 easy payments, then it starts all over ….

Even down here at the tail end of civilization, us South Enders have been hearing talk lately about Income Inequality. Cap’n Billy down at the Marina claims it’s nothing less, this talk, than an assault on the Rich. “The Losers,” he declares, knocking the ash from his briar on the pier pilings, “they want to pull the successful down to their level. Take their money and give it to the freeloaders on welfare.” He beats his pipe the way he’d like to beat some sense into Jimmy the Geek who made the mistake of arguing with Billy.

“All I’m saying, Bill, is these folks didn’t get all the money cause they worked 1000 times harder — they got tax breaks. I work for Boeing but Boeing got billions to stay in the state. I call that corporate welfare. Workers are getting their wages cut while the stockholders and the executives, hell Bill, they’re getting fat.”

Cap’n Billy is getting Hot. “I worked hard for my pay, dammit. I don’t need you pencil pushers telling me I ought to give part of it back so some lazy do-nothing can sit home and watch TV all day when the government gives him his Handout. What’s your gripe, anyway, Jim, you’re doing okay? You one of those bleeding heart socialists?”

And so it went. Jim and I walked the gangplank up to the Pilot House for a cold one, admittedly a little early, but sometimes you just got to cool off. Loretta was bartending, took our order and when she parked two pints in front of us, asked if we’d care to give to the Food Bank where she volunteers two days a week. “I’ll give two beers,” I said, quite the comic, but Jim took out his wallet all serious like and fished out a twenty.

“Thanks for doing this, Loretta,” he said. So of course I felt like the Grinch. I gave her a ten. “Expensive beers,” I joked. Jimmy shook his head. “We’re lucky dogs,” he said, taking a long slow sip. The bar’s Christmas lights twinkled off his glasses.

We clinked pints. “Here’s to the winners,” I toasted, ever the jokester. Jimmy grinned, just as Cap’n Billy pushed through the door.

“Loretta,” Jimmy cried, “get the Cap’n a beer! It’s on us.” Bill waved him off, but Loretta poured him one anyway. “Merry Christmas, Bill,” Jimmy said. “Merry Christmas, boys,” Bill said back. “Merry Christmas one and all!” Loretta warbled. We all four sat for awhile, listening to the corny Jingle Bells Loretta had on the radio over the bar. Maybe it wasn’t the ghost of Christmas Future, but down here on the South End, it would have to do.

Being the ‘professional’ that I am, I got an invitation to Linked-In, sort of the Facebook of career people like myself, all us Movers and Shakers of the South End. I must’ve been medicating heavily or just being inattentive, cause I said okay to this friend who wanted to put me on their high caliber list of associates, the emphasis here on ‘high’. Pretty soon — hell, almost immediately — everyone from Uncle Joe in Kokomo to Banjo Billy wants to link up.

Link up? I got a telephone. And even if it’s not cellular, I answer it. Even without caller ID. I’m not afraid to talk to anyone. Or hang up on em. Give me a call — I’m in the book. I even list my address, something, I notice, 90% of us don’t want to give out. Like we’re unfindable on Google. Jeez, gimme a break and another beer. We want to put every statistic we got on the social medias, but we’re too private to list a phone. We cough up our most private thoughts, wants, desires and naked photos …. But won’t list our address in a phone book.

Hello?? Has the physical reality gotten too frightening for ya? And do you really think there’s some kind of sanctuary in Facebook? Oh, sweetheart, have I got a great deal on a website for you. Forget the Brooklyn Bridge — this is way better. A La-La Land with firewalls and spam filters and virus screens, a place where no harm can befall you, no advertisers can reach you, no government agency can spy on you, a virtual paradise where only you and your one million closest friends can tell each other your most intimate secrets. What movie you liked, what car you covet, what your boyfriend whispered to you after incredible unprotected sex, what cereal you eat every damn morning ….

Sign up NOW! Call me NOW! Like I said, I’m in the phonebook. My operators are standing by. Okay, it’s just me. No friends. No associates. Just little old me. Call Now — I promise I won’t bite. Or sell your information to 16 million third parties. Without your permission. Your call, however, may be monitored. You know, for your own protection. Call. Call now!

We all make mistakes. So okay, us South Enders make a few more than most. I don’t know whether poverty leads to more tragedy per person or tragedy leads to more poverty. My Republican neighbors think they know. Even the ones who are poor and have more than their fair share of bad drama.

I’m not one who thinks money can buy you luck, but it can sure narrow the odds. And I am a believer in keeping a buffer between me and the wolves outside the shack door. Bad luck comes to us all; I just don’t want it to carry me over the Edge.

Jenny was driving her beat up Chevy station wagon to town a month ago. It’s a relic from the days of cheap gas, wide as a semi and half as long as the Exxon Valdez. She needs it to haul hay for her horses, she says. I could ask, of course, how it is a woman barely able to pay the rent can afford horses, but I’ve learned to keep my prying mouth shut. It’s a free country, they tell me, at least until the credit stops.

Jenny was lighting a Marlboro, trying to reach the length of Kansas to the cigarette lighter gizmo over by Abilene, and hit the CD replay to hear her favorite song one more time, dropped her unlit cig on the floormat and of course reached down to find it. Happens all the time. One brief moment of inattention, next thing you know, you’re in the ditch, wheels up, blood on the dash.

Jenny’s in shock, the ambulance hauls her to the Skagit hospital emergency room, Carl hauls the Exxon Valdez to his South End Towing impound lot back behind O-Zi-Ya trailer court, the sheriff issues a citation for Inattentive Driving, Jenny goes through a few surgeries for lacerations and a torn shoulder, the hospital and doctors bill her more money than she’s earned since 2004, the horses go hungry and are given away, Carl wants $600 to release her wagon, Jenny can’t work with a cast, probably couldn’t work with one, and now the rent is due.

I sure don’t want to cast judgement, but judgement is definitely at issue here. The very least I can say is if you live on the South End, watch where you’re going. It’s a winding narrow road. And trust me, the ditches are damn deep…..