The Skeeter Daddle Diaries

When we bought our 7 acres and its accompanying shack back in 1977, we first saw the place at night. The smell of cookies baking in a 1920’s Majestic wood stove, the soft glow of oil lamps, a fire crackling in the parlor stove — sure, I thought I’d died and gone to Hippie Heaven. A thought that evaporated by daylight the day we signed the paperwork, at least for the mizzus who sat herself in a corner of the vacated shack and cried her eyes out.

What we didn’t discover until spring was a clearcut woods that by May was an impenetrable jungle of stinging nettles 7 feet high. These days they’d qualify for required disclosure on real estate forms, same as contaminated wells, leaking roofs, buckling foundations and black mold behind the walls. Trails had to be cleared constantly just to enter the dreaded stinging domain and we were constantly struck by toppled nettles that penetrated even the thickest dungarees.

In some parts of the country, pioneers dealt with predators, arctic winters, poisonous snakes and insects, dust storms, hurricanes and hostile natives. So if my curse was only hostile neighbors and stinging nettles, I counted myself semi-lucky. You can eat nettles and I’ve made nettle beer with the itching bastards. The hostile neighbors, well, we had our differences. And still do. But there’s never been any violence. So far.

For 30 years I made my peace. With both. But awhile back I decided enough was really enough! One spring I took a sickle and cleared acre after acre of these monsters. And when they sprang right back up, I hit em again. And again. Each spring I attack the fresh recruits with extreme prejudice … and each spring less and less of them come back. The cedar and fir seedlings I plant now have sunlight reaching them where earlier they withered and died beneath a dark canopy of nettles.

The old growths are gone now, just a few stumps, a memory of early times here on the South End of the island, a myth maybe to the neighbors with their weed’n’feed manicured lawns. But when I’m gone and my sickle hung up for good, little doubt in my mind the roots of these stingers, patient all these many years, will return with a vengeance. I wish em luck…. The neighbors, I mean.

During the enforced hibernation of the Covid Plague, Techno Tom and his wife took in their son and his wife plus their two kids. No big deal considering Tom and Rachel’s house here across the road from us was a two story, 4 bedroom, 3 bath Cape Cod with a 3 car garage and another for the 40 foot travel trailer that rarely left its shelter. Tom and Rachel didn’t mind the return of their prodigal son, but Jason and his wife Marie viewed this as a personal catastrophe, lost job, their own house underwater, the kids forced to uproot and attend school here in the boondocks, just paupers accepting the charity of parents who they figured might have other plans for their Golden Years than an empty nest filled back up.

Jason, once the quarantines lifted, enrolled in a Coding Boot Camp, something Tom explained to us techie imbeciles that had something to do with creating software programs. Good paying jobs, he said, and sure enough, Jason was hired at a start-up in Seattle and after a couple of years in South End purgatory, made his family’s escape. Tom and Rachel fronted the kids partial down payment on a modest house in the city, the children enrolled in new schools — again — and the future looked rosy. Again.

Until this week when Techno joined our table at the Pilot House, not with his usual beer but a double shot of scotch on the rocks. ‘Wuzzup?’, one of us finally got up the courage to ask after 5 minutes of silent and serious drinking until the tension proved too much to wait on Tom to break the dismal mood.

“My kid,’ he moaned. ‘They laid him off yesterday. Said they didn’t need a coder now that AI can do the same thing ten times faster and twice as well. Plus, nobody’s hiring coders now, same damn reason. He’s screwed. What’s he gonna do now?’

Now, you have to understand, Tom’s audience were maybe not the best choice for eliciting sympathy, most of us having spent our ‘earning years’ in frivolous pursuits, odd jobs, artistic detours … and, well, just basic indolence to be honest.

But we bought the next couple of rounds, declared that the Tech Billionaires were scum, cursed AI and mumbled pathetic aphorisms like ‘when one door closes another one opens’, not altogether helpful in raising Techno’s despair. He declared the American Dream dead and finally Two Toke drove him home. I imagine pretty soon Jason will be joining us at the Pilot House where we can all give him the benefit of our collective sage counseling.

Rhonda was nursing her glass of red merlot when I rolled into the American Legion with a buddy who’d ‘guested’ me into the inner sanctum of the Stanwoodopolis military speakeasy, a windowless, no frills lounge catering to those in search of cheap booze, generous pours and dollar off beers. We’d just come from the No King protests up north with our fellow left wing terrorists who hate America and want to burn our cities down. La Conner was still intact, not a town that looked like Gaze, buildings just rubble and the river townspeople sheltered in tent encampments along the dikes.

Rhonda was the lead blocker for the South End Slammers, our roller derby squad, not a far cry from her detachment in Iraq 2, but a hamstring pull tangling with the Burlington Bruisers the week before had put her on injured reserve. She was recuperating at the bar where we joined her, taking the last two stools available.

“How you doin?” my pal asked her and she just grunted. “Not great, thanks for asking.” Then told us her play by play that led to her injury. “I’ll be back on the rink in a couple,” she said. And being the joker chucklehead, I asked, “Couple more drinks?”

“Weeks, you asshole.” Which prompted a hasty apology and the offer to buy the next round. “Sorry,” she said, “I’m just grouchy today … but I’ll take another glass, thanks,” and waved to our bartender with her now empty glass.

In the adjoining room a cornhole tournament was underway with beanbags flying, scores tallied, drinks close at hand. Spectators sat at tables in the bar watching half interested. No King protests meant nothing to these folks. Rhonda either when conversation got around to it, Larry mentioning our antifa escapades at some point.

“So what’s the idea?” she asked. “The guy’s a jerk but he’s no king. Maybe we need a jerk instead of the usual mealy-mouths.”

Since I’d already proven myself a jerk, I decided to sip my beer and shut up. Larry, a regular here, maybe he’d take a shot at explaining what we were doing at the protests, what the point was. Instead he said, “Maybe you’re right. I sure hope so. Next round’s on me.”

They say the country is polarized. And probably it is. Okay, definitely it is. But for a couple of hours we watched cornhole and talked roller derby and the Iraq War and crazy politics. Nobody got mad and none of us got hurt. No bean bags were thrown in our direction. The last round was on Rhonda.

Some of you crusty old timers out here tonight might remember when Camano was such a sleepy little backwash, we didn’t have deputies on patrol after midnight. Crime was pretty much limited to marijuana growing —- you know, BEFORE it became a medicinal herb — and a few break-ins down at unoccupied beach cabins, probably OFF-islanders sneaking in by boat. Any criminals that were caught, well the sheriff’s department had to haul them over to the hoosegow in Coupeville, kind of a long drive, deliver the miscreant, then drive back here. In the meantime we were left vulnerable, defenseless and unprotected. To be honest, most of us never noticed….

Somewhere in the 1980’s some entrepreneurial South Enders … well, okay, some desperately unemployed South Enders thought the time was ripe for a Private Security Agency, sign up the absentee landowners and go check on their unattended dwellings. You know, cruise by and see if the front door was still on its jambs and lights weren’t on when they were supposed to be off, maybe get out and check the locks, walk around with a flashlight, wear a special agent badge South End Safeguard, something catchy, something official looking in case the neighbors wondered about us prowling the back yard late at night. Admittedly, we looked a little rough. Okay, we looked like the guys we were supposed to protect folks against. But hellfire, man, this was the South End and back then we all looked a little ragged around the edges. Remember, this was BEFORE the great migration, the one where the Dot.com’ers took their suitcases of cash and bought up the bluffs and hauled in stuff WORTH stealing.

That’s the trouble with rich people, you see. They bring valuables. They bring expensive toys. They bring, if you follow my reasoning here, CRIME. Simple as that. When we were all poor, why would we steal from each other? We left our doors unlocked, the keys to the truck in the ignition. You wanted to steal MY truck, chances are I’d find you broke down about half a mile north of me. I’d probably have to apologize to YOU for loaning you a beat up rig you’d have to repair three times to town.

Well, the South End Security and Surveillance Agency was a little ahead of the curve. So they finally called it quits. Before the incoming tsunami of wealthy neighbors brought their big suburb crime to our pastoral paradise of poverty . We got 24/7 deputies from Island County finally and for awhile we could drop off captured criminals, alleged captured criminals, with the Stanwoodopolis Police, save them hours of scenic transportation and get right back to the scene of our crimes.

And then, before we could regroup our patrol cars and security agents, along came the Civilian Patrol. Free of charge. Official. Nice lettering on the side of the vehicles instead of that ratty plastic sign we had that fell off more than a few times and even got Two Toke Tom pulled over for littering. He got off with a warning, but it rattled him so much he resigned and turned in his patrol badge, worried, I think, littering might lead to some sniffing around his grow sheds up by the South End Diner. And that was his sole livelihood, so he didn’t want to jeapordize that.

Well, anyway, I’m sort of rambling along here about the history of crime-fighting on Camano and I haven’t even gotten to Colton yet, but …. I think maybe I better just wrap this up and move on to subjects that won’t interfere with dessert digestion. But I do want to say to you crimefighters, thank you! Not so much for ending crime down by me as for saving me that job in my truck patrolling the rich folks’ houses. If I’d really seen how they lived, how much they had, how nice they had it, who knows, I mighta turned to a life of crime myself with all that temptation. Lucky for me I stayed stupid and poor.

Used to be Midlife Crises came when we were shocked to realize youth had lost its bloom and wouldn’t be coming back. Although … guys bought red sportscars and their wives dyed their grey hairs and considered plastic surgery. A new set of wheels or breasts usually didn’t work — truth was, what they mourned was the end of dreams. The corporate man was never going to backpack Europe or write the Great American Novel. And his trophy wife was not going back to college for a degree in sociology. Even if the kids were….

But I’m seeing friends who are going through a different crisis, the one where mortality is closing in and so is the realization that their life was mostly mortgaged, maybe even subprimed and now the equity seems puny and someone else may actually foreclose on it. They’re retired, time is not on their side and may never have been, and now the prospect of another hard winter is really bearing down. They think maybe a move might help. Go south, go back to their hometowns, look for a second childhood or adolescence, start over and see if the dice come up Lucky Sevens. They ask me: do you think I’m nuts to do this? And I say sure, (as if I got anything against being nuts)  but … if you’re not happy here, with what you got, with the life you made, I’d take a roll of the dice too.  Plus, it’s America.  We’re supposedly the adventurous, the brave, the pioneers.  We leave the known for the unknown.  We let optimism be our guide.  Complacency is the enemy.  Reinvent yourself!  Nothing ventured, nothing gained.  Go west, young man!  At least …. that’s what we tell ourselves.  Even if most of us have settled for a secure banality.

So maybe  it’s the winter of our discontent. Friends are dying, not a lot, but a start and our turn is in there somewhere. The community volunteerism isn’t working, the house has a leaky roof and the deck is rotted, retirement is surprisingly BORING, the walls are closing in and the trips to town are maddeningly uneventful. It’s as if the life we thought we’d built on sturdy foundations is sliding toward the bluff in incremental but steady tectonic lurches. We aren’t going to be rich and famous, money didn’t buy us love, religion was dumbed down to an embarrassingly blind faith devoid of anything resembling much more than a hope for another life in the after-world or prayers for winning the Lotto. We’re adrift, unmoored and untethered, and definitely uneasy.

I know. This is how I felt when I came here. For you pilgrims, be of cheerful heart! Sometimes the grass IS greener. Occasionally you CAN start over. Dreams DO come true in the once upon a times…. And happiness may actually be just over the next hill, the one you won’t find if you don’t go looking. Good luck!