The Skeeter Daddle Diaries

The other day I overheard a conversation at the Diner between Fairlane Freddie and Janet Jorgenson, actually more an argument, precipitated by Fred when he complained about Stanwood upgrading its streets, putting a landscaped separation between lanes, erecting a metal and art entryway coming into town, all upgrades Fred declared were a waste of money. “My god, Freddie,” Janet shot back, “give that town some credit. They’re trying to make improvements.”

“Gimme a break,” Fred retorted hotly, sloshing coffee on the formica between them. “Like that walking trail around the sewer lagoon? You think they needed that?”

Janet shook her head and forked in a mouthful of pancake. When she finally swallowed, she asked, “You ever walk that trail?” Fred, of course, had not. “Why would I?”

“I dunno. Maybe the view of the Olympics, the Sound, the river, our island? They’re making a new park at the Ovenell farm, another by the train depot and I think one past the library, you know, that corner at the Y.”

Fred didn’t know and furthermore, Fred couldn’t care less, all a waste of time and money, he said. “Now they want to build a damn Art Center,” he practically shouted for the rest of us to hear. “Just what we need, more stupid art!”

“Just gonna draw more stupid artists.” Yeah, I said that from two tables over, happy to stir this particular pot. Janet seemed relieved to watch the argument move downstream, give her time to finish her cold pancakes. Anita, our waitress, groaned, half done refilling my coffee mug. “Wind him up,” she muttered, “all we need this morning.”

“You guys never stop,” Fairlane replied. “Took Terry’s Corner off the tax roles to build your goofy Visitor Center, run that Mother’s Day Tour that clogs traffic every year — who asked for all that? Used to be a nice rural island and Stanwood was a quiet little town. Couldn’t just leave well enough alone?”

“Aw, Fred, you know us artists, the last thing we could do would be to leave well enough alone. You drive that ’63 Ford, plenty good enough for you, but big fins and dual exhaust dinosaurs got to make way for the Jetsons’ flying cars, probably EV’s.”

“I spoze you’re all FOR that new art center,” he sneered.

“What, me?” I said. “What have you got against new growth down in the floodplain? Give it some new life, maybe draw folks down to the Pearson House, The Floyd Cultural Center, the History Museum. Hell, Fred, you could stop in at the old library, probably hate our new one on the island. Stanwoodtown is up the hill now – you want to save the old, might as well embrace the new down below.”

The couple at the table between ours, figuring they’d stumbled into a DMZ no-man’s land, hastily finished their breakfasts and headed for the safety of the cash register by the door, no point becoming collateral damage in the Culture War.

“We better stop, Fred — we’re scaring away the tourists,” I said. Janet laughed. “Pretty soon they’ll be coming to that Art Center,” she said.

“Swell,” Fred grumbled. “More damn art.”

“You’ll probably survive the shock, Fred,” I told him. Anita was going to get a big tip from me this morning….