The Skeeter Daddle Diaries

A full month of Sunday sermons leading up to Halloween, Pastor Paul preaches mightily against the demonic holiday, pounding his pulpit with his leatherbound copy of the King James version of the Lord’s scripture. “Blasphemous!” he hollers to the assembled congregation. “Devil worshippers! Beggars in obedience to Beelzebub!” Pastor Paul unleashes a stream of caustic invectives to the steady tattoo of his Bible slapping the plywood podium.

“This unholy holiday,” he exhorts, “is an affront to God himself!” In every pew and folding chair, the Little Church in the Ravine’s dutiful members hang their heads and avert their eyes, probably half with kids who’ve already bought skeleton costumes, Star Wars regalia, vampire teeth and wolfman masks. Hypocrisy be damned, they’re not about to tell little Jimmy or Brenda they can’t join in the national gathering of candy, c’mon, they all wandered the streets of their own childhood with a grocery bag or a pillowcase to collect their bribes. No harm done.

If you don’t count cavities and a spike in dental fees by Christmas. The era of juvenile deviltry has long passed into faded myth — even the elders never followed up on the threat of a trick. No outhouses were moved back six feet, no buggies were parked on a shed roof, no bags of dog pop were set on fire on the offenders’ porches to be stamped out after the doorbell was rung and the goblins had fled.

Pastor Paul, unfortunately, every year thinks he’s preaching to the choir, but most of the squirming congregation think he ought to lighten up a bit. Fun is fun and dressing up like a zombie doesn’t make the kids prefer human flesh over Snickers bars and Milky Ways and whatever high fructose treats the suburbs of Stanwoodopolis are parceling out mostly before dark. Even the kids and their parents know the vampires come out after sundown when, hopefully, they’re safely home spoiling an appetite for a healthy dinner. Paul, of course, thinks those parents are boiling up eye of newt soup with a dash of bat blood and who knows what hell broth added too. Same recipe as last year….

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I heard a guy on the radio, some Hot Talk jock, who said he was against not only minimum wage increases, he was against minimum wage completely. He argued that the largest growth spurt in U.S. history was when the corporations took off with little tax and with no regulations to prevent them from setting wages as low as the market would bear. Capitalism at its cut-throat best, unfettered, unregulated and unapologetic. The Roaring 20’s. I guess he didn’t read the next chapter in his 8th grade history book, the one titled The Great Depression.

Down here in the laissez faire South End, a lot of us don’t have minimum wage jobs cause we don’t even have jobs. The ones who do have minimum wage jobs don’t make enough to afford health insurance or to make the monthly nut on that double-wide they’ll never own outright. To make ends meet they’ll apply for food stamps or other supplemental programs. These are the folks my Hot Talk jock calls ‘Takers’. Or sometimes ‘Whiners’. And occasionally, when he’s feeling frisky, ‘Leeches’. And when he hears some candidate advocating for tax reform or health care or income equity, he screams ‘Class Warfare’.

The South End Food Bank barely keeps up these days. Moms with kids, fathers without jobs, folks who are disabled, people down on their luck. The Little Church in the Ravine helps the poor, I’ll give em that. Pastor Bob preaches the parable of the loaves and the fish, feeding the masses. I saw a bumper sticker on a BMW going into town: WINNING DOESN’T MEAN SOMEONE HAS TO LOSE. Or so he’d like to think….

Charity begins in the home, I’ll grant you, but sometimes we need to think of America as our home. Maybe you never needed a helping hand, but I suspect most of us got one except maybe that BMW driver. You maybe can’t legislate compassion, but you can sure legislate for fair play. You think folks living on the street or applying for food stamps or welfare are all Takers, turn off your radio and stand by the Food Bank half a day. It might just soften your heart.

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I don’t care WHAT T.S. Eliot says, November, not April, is the cruelest month. The bottom drops right out of autumn along with all the leaves, then the rains come and so do the winds. Up here in the northern latitudes, the sun sets further and further south and earlier and earlier. God help the poor folks who live on the north side of the hills — they might as well be in the Arctic.

Humans, or so the scientists tell me, aren’t programmed to hibernate. That may be true, but you can’t tell me there’s no vestigial urge to hunker down and wait until spring brings my sap back up with renewed energy. I know folks who sit in front of a full spectrum lamp trying to fend off the winter blahs, hoping to trick the hormones that trigger the blues into thinking it’s a summer morn. Some of them revert to alcohol, balm of all us northern climate dwellers, probably just a self-induced hibernative state. And the neighbors who can afford to, they just pack it up and leave. Head for the sunshine of Arizona or Nevada, figure a trailerpark in the desert beats what we got.

I spoze we all have burdens to bear. Tahitians got coconut grenades dropping, Hawaiians got island fever. If there was a paradise, the cruise ships would ruin it in a season, the investors would cover it with resort hotels and Vegas-style casinos, the residents would work as maids and valets. Count yer lucky stars, I tell the mizzus, if there was Garden of Eden, we’d be the landscape crew, minimum wage, with Adam and his cranky wife barking orders, never satisfied with the weeding and edging, always wanting that damn apple tree pruned half to death, no wonder it never produces fruit. Naw, a month or two of rainy, windy weather, what the hell, maybe ought to catch up on our reading. And … a little extra sleep wouldn’t hurt either.

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My old landlord was building a plane in his basement. We were renting the walk-up 2nd floor apartment above Sky Pilot Phil and his long suffering mizzus. I don’t know what Phil did for a living, but I’m fairly certain he wasn’t an airline pilot. When we first moved in, he took me down in the cellar to see his pride and joy. His pride and joy wasn’t his wife, I could tell that right off the bat. He treated her not much better than his cocker spaniel that filled the backyard with landmines we tried to avoid without much luck.

Maybe you’ve never built a small airplane. I sure hadn’t. But I can tell you, it wasn’t small crammed into that basement of his with all the stuff you usually find in a basement. Plus all the stuff Phil needed to assemble this contraption. “Wow!” I said. “How long you been AT this?” He told me he’d been working on this five years. It had a fuselage and I guess he had the motor or engine or whatever aviators call it, mounted on the front, but no propeller yet.

“Wow,” I said again, a little at a loss for words. All I could think was you couldn’t pay me enough to crawl in that flimsy mess, sit in the cockpit and take off to a certain death by gravity. “How much more you got to go, Phil?”

He was close. Real close. I thought of Icarus, maybe too close. “It’s really something,” I said lamely. Like a lot of places I lived during my roaring 20’s, I felt like I needed to move on. Phil’s family life was a wreck and I didn’t care to share it through the heating vents so the day came when I gave notice. “Sure hate to leave before you take her up,” I said, like I really wanted to be a witness to another Hindenburg.

Phil shook his head sadly. “I don’t know if I can get it out.” “Up, you mean….” I asked. “No, out. I didn’t think about getting it through the basement door. It’s a little too big, even disassembled. I may have to cut through a wall.”

We all have our dreams, I suppose. Some realize those dreams and some … well, some are like Phil. Just lucky. My suspicion is he’s still taking renters down in the cellar and still imagines a day, not too distant, of his own personal Kitty Hawk. I’ll give him this: he built a plane. And he lived to tell about it. His wife, I’m betting, probably has a better story.

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Zorba, a buddy of mine, stopped in today. I asked what’s new? and he opened up the tailgate to his truck and pulled out a metal attache case, snapped open the fancy clasps and lifted out a spidery looking gizmo with four propellers at each corner. Nestled beneath its insect body was a gimbaled camera. I was looking at my first real life drone.

Roll over H.G. Wells, give Beethoven the news. Zorba, whose real name is Mike, ran me through all the sci fi protocol, then showed me photos of where we were on the South End from hundreds of feet up, photos where I could see Port Susan lapping shore on the east and Saratoga Straits on the west. He ran this aerodynamic spy plane with his laptop. He said it could go up 500 feet and fly as far away as a mile and a half. I thought I heard a Time Machine land in my backyard.

This is indeed an age of miracles and wonders, a future we barely have to wait for. Zorba and I shook our heads, laughing. At least until he asked, “If we can buy this, what do you suppose the government has? How much more sophisticated is theirs?” We’ll all have one these before long. $300 now, they’ll put em in cereal boxes as prizes in a couple of years.

Well, I haven’t given enough thought to how I’d like to use mine yet. Course, I’d have to get a laptop first, maybe even a cellphone first, something to control the little hummer. Doesn’t seem likely. Once again I’ll be the last yahoo on the South End, miles behind the curve, watching the aerial acrobatics in the neighborhood, everybody taking photos from outer space while I’m earthbound. I know it’ll seem like techno-envy, but I may have to set up a No-Fly Zone over the shack, enforced not by laser beams maybe, but I still got Gramp’s old shotgun.

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In this corner we have the Wildman of Tech, the Silicon Kid, the Tesla Terror: Elon the Elephant Musk. In the other corner we got the Bizness Brawler, the Texas Trampler, the Mad Maverick: Mark the Venture Gorilla Cuban. Ladies and Gentlemen, this will be a 15 round battle of the billionaires, no holds barred, no Marquis of Queensberrry bullshit rules, everything goes, may the best and richest man win!

This is, after all, America. Home of the Wealthy, Land of Unlimited Spending. The Supreme Court has made it possible for political contributions that have virtually no ceiling. If you thought the rich got richer before, hang onto your Social Security checks, the ride just got rougher … if you’re poor. Meaning, not a millionaire yourself. All men, so says the Declaration of Independence, are created equal. Not sure how equal women are. But created equal doesn’t mean squat immediately following birth. The rich run the world, boys, get used to it. So reads the law, so says the Supreme Court.

Might as well just accept that and embrace the Battle of the Billionaires. At least it’s up front and out in the open. Most of the dark money rolling into the election cycles is hidden from view. Give Mark and Elon some credit — they’re taking off the gloves and turning on the cameras. Why not? It’s Entertainment, folks! And trust me on this, a hungry America is starving for more reality TV, can’t really get enough, and hey, let’s skip the detailed proposals, why don’t we. A lot more gratifying to wallow in the escapism of Haitian immigrants eating your pets or graphic tales of rapists run amok from across the porous borders. Foreign policy briefs? We don’t need no stinking foreign policy briefs!

This election is coming down to the wire, folks. Anybody’s ballgame. If we had our heads screwed on straight, we’d skip the vote counts, drop the Electoral College in the garbage and go right to Like or Dislike. Course, you know and I do too, the rich would have no limit on the number of their Likes.

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Mermaid Jim used to live south of me, the closest person to the island’s Head, its southernmost inhabitant. I only encountered him infrequently and so he never remembered meeting before which meant I heard his stories numerous times. Invariably he would recount his mermaid story, and invariably I’d wait to find discrepancies from the previous tellings.

“I was scuba diving in the Bahamas,” he’d start in, apropos of nothing in our conversation and only moments from new introductions, how do ya do’s, where ya live? “I was down maybe 30 feet off the reef when she swam right up to me, talked to me like I’m talking to you, bubbles coming out of her mouth while she held steady with her tail. Her tail, man, her tail!”

“Mermaid?” I’d say after hearing the story the first time. “Right,” Jim would say, grateful I wasn’t rolling my eyes or calling 911 for psychiatric help.

“I saw her the next day and the next, every day I dove down there.”

“Whaddaya talk about?”I’d ask. “Nothing much,” he’d always respond.

I guess if I met a mermaid, I’d have some questions and maybe she would too, but Jim apparently didn’t and his sea princess was similarly uncurious. It made his mermaid story short and sweet but not particularly interesting. Still, he never embellished it. Never altered it. He met a mermaid, they talked, he went home. Simple facts. Extraordinary encounter. Worth telling everyone he met about it — mermaids exist, he’s seen one, he’s even talked to one.

Once I asked him if he thought she had a family, if maybe there was a whole undersea city of mermen and mermaids, if they had a watery civilization, if ….
“How would I know?” Jim answered, annoyed that his one mermaid wasn’t plenty as it obviously was for him. “I met a mermaid,” he said, “and she talked to me.”

Developers built four houses near Jim’s place maybe 10 years ago where there hadn’t been anyone for half a mile either direction. Jim told me, last encounter we had, he’d be leaving for over the mountains, maybe Mazama, where there would be less neighbors to bother him. I nearly asked why he wasn’t headed back toward water, maybe be reunited with his mermaid, but I didn’t.   I figure in a way he’s taking her with him.

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Down at the Pilot Lounge a few nights ago us layabouts were debating the possibility that the hurricanes menacing Florida were actually engineered by the government. Gregory, our amateur meteorologist and rabid Trump supporter, had been mercilessly ridiculed when he stated that it was 99% certain Biden had commanded these storms be set in motion. “You idiots ever heard of seeding the clouds?” he wanted to know of us jackals. “Why do you think the rain was so heavy, all those floods into North Carolina? They got the technology. Wake up!”

“Give me a break, Greg,” Ralph said. “We’re talking a hurricane, not a shower. No way they’re able to stir up a storm that size. You better slow down on those beers.” Two Toke, who up to this point had kept his sarcasm to a minimum, finally had to get his two cents in and said to Greg, “aren’t you the guy who thinks climate change couldn’t possibly be caused by humans? But now the government controls the weather?”

Gregory was unperturbed. “Two different things, Tom. Global warming is a natural phenomenon, got nothing to do with us. You been listening to all that left wing propaganda, buddy, maybe time to turn it off. Climate changes all the time, with or without us.”

Ralph howled. “Why don’t we get the government to turn down the heat, then?” To which Gregory replied, “Don’t be dumb. Seeding clouds is one thing, heat’s another. You think the sun has a thermostat?” Little Jimmy said, “why don’t we try turning the heat down right here? You got your opinion, we got ours.” Ralph spluttered. “One opinion is totally cockamamie, Jimmy. Not like we should respect it cause it’s an opinion. Stupid is stupid.”

“I spoze you figure the forest fires were started with lasers from the Space Station,” Jerry chimed in from behind the bar. He was tonight’s bartender and usually stayed out of our debates as much as possible. Guess he just felt like fanning the flames. Fairlane Fred declared that the fires weren’t started by the damn government, it was the Jews.

“God almighty, Freddie, where do you guyz get this stuff,” Ralph asked, “out of the comic section?”

“Read the news, Ralphie Boy,” Fred shot back, “and get your facts straight. In fact, I’ll send you a link or two, might open your eyes.”

In the end, after a few more rounds, the atmosphere of the Pilot Lounge grew foggier and foggier. Was it man made? Was it a government conspiracy? Did it really matter? The usual agreement to disagree was decided on, feelings were hurt, apologies never materialized. It was, after all, a typical night at the Lounge. Most of us could hardly wait til the coming election.

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One of the latest trends in trend-crazy America is to create a personal library in our domiciles. Not to amass a collection from our reading list (if we even have one) but to impress our visitors with volumes of literature and non-fiction. A well-stocked library should subtly send the message that its owners are erudite readers with broad and eclectic tastes. Sprinkle in a few Booker award novels among the classics, add some poetry anthologies, spice the biblioteca up with an encyclopedic array from the sciences, philosophies, a few avant-garde pieces and certainly oversized art books. Wow them with your extensive and expensive tastes!

But before you hurry out to your nearest Goodwill to find the raw materials for your Jeffersonian library, l should add that if you really want to impress your friends and neighbors, just piling dog-eared books on a make-shift shelf really isn’t going to do the trick. No, you need the equivalent of an oak paneled room, floor to ceiling shelving, preferably behind glass and if you have the ideal height, one of those rolling ladders necessary to access the hard-to-reach collection of rare books up at the top. First editions are a must and signed copies de rigueur in these unenlightened times of Google and Wickipedia. You are a person of discriminating tastes, my friend, not one of the yammering yokels who would ask why they would need a community library when they have a laptop.

Suffice it say it would be imperative to have a well-used armchair with adequate lighting beside it as well as a sturdy stand with one or more books ‘in progress’ even if you never plan to open another book to read in your entire life. The gesture is what counts. And hopefully your guests will never query you as to that current reading. If so, simply tell them you have only begun Chapter One and to make judgement at so early a stage would be foolish. You, needless to say, are not foolish. The library itself will attest to that. No, you sir are of finer mettle, a lord in the land of the Kindle, a giant among the unread. Relish your place above the unwashed masses. You’ve earned it!

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For any of you following these posts — and I sincerely apologize — you know I ignored the pleadings of my better half to hire a bathroom remodeling company to tear out our old shower and install a new one. I did this partly because the remodelers I called were busy until the following year or two but to be honest, because I’m mule-headed, one of those husbands who thinks he can handle a little Do-It-Yerself without bringing Catastrophe upon our house. Okay, full disclosure, I’ve had some close calls. Once, when building the house, I removed a couple of interior studs to make room for a Russian fireplace, what turned out to be very structural load bearing studs. Within a half minute the upper story was sagging into the first floor, 2×4’s were bending precipitously and yeah, Mr. DIY was nervous. Okay he was scared to death the entire house was going to collapse before he could shove some hastily cut studs and pound them into place with a maul. And yeah, I’ll admit at one point I considered the necessity of evacuating the house before I was killed by my own stupidity.

Lessons have been learned. Almost burning down my studio working on a 60 amp breaker that I grounded inadvertently … okay, another close call, smoldering walls and a call to the volunteer fire department, another instructional exercise. Although not as quickly learned when I wired a 240 volt heater incorrectly some years later and wire nuts were melted with scorch marks on the wall. But … I was younger then and far less wise than I am in my advancing old age, forget that maxim about old dogs and new tricks. We’re talking humans.

But I digress. Let’s fast forward to the new shower Karen didn’t want me installing myself. Took awhile but got it in okay. Until we noticed the leaks coming in from … somewhere. No big deal, just go back and caulk a little more. Day after day, the same thing, mystery leaks coming from god only knows where. A month went by and it became apparent to even me that this new shower might have to be torn out and find out if that leak was from the drain pipes, maybe I forgot to glue them together, about the only thing left as the culprit. Of course it also occurred to me, and I’m sure Karen too, that the second time through might be similar to the first time through. This, dear reader, is Plumbing 101. A little like quantum physics where the usual laws of the universe are skewed by the observance of the physicist….

Desperate troubles call for desperate measures. Drinking, for one. Which of course didn’t really offer help. In the end, out of solutions and out of time too, I did what I always do in these situations, just try anything at all no matter how insane. What have you got to lose? Maybe a flooded house, okay, I’ll give you that.

Two days ago I bought some stop-leak gunk used to seal up holes in radiators in cars and trucks. Last time I used that stuff I plugged my Rambler’s heater completely. So I know it works, just sometimes maybe a little too well. I rammed a towel down the shower drain to partially plug the water from draining too fast, then little by little poured the entire bottle of gunk down the hole. I know, I know, it was the act of a half crazed plumbing victim facing no other options than tearing out the shower and starting over, probably doing exactly the same thing and expecting better results.

Let me say in conclusion, the leak has stopped. Or leaks. Yes, Virginia, there are miracles. Even though they are essentially unheard of in the world of plumbing. And once again, by the skin of my teeth, I can say I averted what should have been a DIY catastrophe. But admittedly not without psychic scars. You out there looking for a Plumbing Influencer such as myself, trust me, do not try this in your own home!

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