The Skeeter Daddle Diaries

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Back in the late 20th Century the South End — and the entire island, really — was inundated by hordes of artists. We were like a sprawling refugee camp of painters and potters fleeing their hellish urban existence, so many in such a short time, old timers like myself worried that even the tides would be affected, all the pressure from artistic egos unleashed like a methane tsunami from thawing tundra.

Art, suddenly, was everywhere. Studios sprouted in barns and chicken coops, galleries sprang up in old garages, art tours became yearly events, even the Camano Chamber of Commerce was taken over by brush-wielding artisans bent on bringing culture to the unwashed masses. Sculptures appeared in the parks, murals were painted on buildings, blown glass balls were hidden in shops to entice customers.

Art was everywhere, it seemed. And yet, there was one glaring void. One corner of the once idyllic South End that seemed impervious to the onslaught of this artistic tidal wave. There was no school to train the next generation. We thought maybe, just maybe, the aging artists would slowly die off and eventually, by sheer attrition, the pastoral existence we had once known would return. That dream died the day the Mabana Institoot of Aesthetic Enlargement opened its doors, offering course in everything from macramé to bronze casting. Some of the artists became instructors — some even enrolled as students.

Down at the Pilot Lounge we regulars held our heads, we moaned, we cursed, we wailed and we prayed the Institoot would go bankrupt. Why Lord, why us? Why inflict the locust plague on us? What had we done to offend thee?

Two Toke, ever the philosophical one of us, late in the evening of a mournful drinking bout the night of the Institoot’s Grand Opening, summed it up. “Boyz,” he said, sloshing his 7th or 8th pint onto our table, “boys,” he said again, momentarily searching for the lost thread. “Boys, you live in paradise and it was only a matter of time.”

“A matter of time for what?” Little Jimmy asked after it was obvious TT had slid into some kind of self-induced reverie. Two Toke clawed slowly back to the reality of our sopping littered table, all eyes on him, all ears alert, all of us eager for some hopeful chunk of wisdom.

“To have paradise,” he said, “ you have to accept its opposite.” And with that, he laid his head on the table, cheek to spilled ale, and passed out. The rest of us looked forlornly at this sad tableau. Finally Jerry broke the silence. “I’m gonna drive him home. Somebody want to help me here?” All six of us stood up, albeit wobbly, two under TT’s armpits, two grabbing his feet, two moving chairs and holding doors. Like pallbearers we hauled out our compatriot and our hopes. The Institoot still offers quarterly courses. And we still drink at the Pilot Lounge. Although … in much greater moderation.

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