The Skeeter Daddle Diaries

The mizzus and me went out to investigate rumors that an old log cabin on the island was about to go up for sale, presumably one of the oldest ones still standing. The current owner and his siblings were interested to know if the Historical Society might be interested in buying it, maybe save them the hassle of a real estate deal, agents, subdivisions, onerous contracts and even more onerous commissions to be doled out. Since the place was a bit out of the bounds of the genteel gated communities, I went along as shotgun. You never know what sort of varmint are laying in wait back in the nettle swamps.

Turns out half the family was up there in the hollows, drinking whisky and sitting around a campfire, tossing flies on a fishing pole to the trout they’d stocked in a fair sized pond. Looked all the world like a scene from Deliverance without the kid with the banjo sitting on the porch. And sure enough, the old log cabin was standing after a century or more, parked on log rounds instead of footings, weathered as boom pilings and festooned with antlers and antiques hung from every nook and cranny in that dark little home. Judging by the antlers, they must’ve cleared out the deer population in that neck of the woods no time flat. The boyz liked their venison and their trout. And they liked to bullshit, which is why we came.

They regaled us with ragged memories, sometimes sharp, sometimes a little rounded from too many retellings. Jim, the Homer of the group, grew up in that cabin. Plenty of siblings, all crammed into about 4 or 500 square feet, one bedroom, different times for sure. Heated the place with a big camp cookstove, three times larger than the one there now. He told us about the military plane that crashed in the woods behind them, two airmen dead, debris scattered for the scroungers after the government carted most all of it off. Talked about their jobs at the Weyerhauser Mill, poker games in the cabin, keggers, the usual good ol boy tales.

We asked why they were selling. Well, they replied, here’s the deal: we decide to keep the place in the family, all the kids, the new generation, they don’t give a damn about this place, they don’t care about the history, they’d just end up fighting about the upkeep, who owes what, who did what, then finally sell the homestead and divvy it up, use it to go traveling instead of working or whatever the kids these days do. Naw, we’re gonna sell it ourselves, take the money, use it how we want.

I get it. Take a couple dozen kids, grandkids, wives and husbands, see how they like sharing the chores, the repairs, the utility bills, the taxes, the lawnmowing tree trimming brush cutting endless joint responsibilities and add them up until you get a splintered family tree. Interestingly enough the boyz figured the kids and grandkids would have little to no interest in the family homestead, just sell it and use it instead of working or’ whatever the stuff they do is called’, probably doing them a favor by not offering it up as a family inheritance.

And so another legacy bites the dust. Or sinks into the swamp. Or just gets lost to the entropy of rot and rust and ruin. A lot of history is like that here on the South End, nothing we don’t see all the time. Too many for the Historical Society to buy and maintain, for sure. But we took a few pictures, heard a little of the family sagas, wished em luck selling the place and hope the new owners will value the log cabin enough to keep it standing, not just bulldoze it under. Chances are they’ll bulldoze it under. In the future, no doubt in my mind at all the historians will mark this the Era of the Gated Communities.

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