The Skeeter Daddle Diaries

Some of my builder buddies tell me they have trouble hiring the local graduates for their trades. I hear the same thing from pals in the restaurant biz. Jobs get advertised, but few apply and half those that do don’t show up for their interviews. I guess the jobs the kids want aren’t physical labor. Not when they could be video jockeys and computer cowboys. Why break your back and your neck framing houses, hauling concrete, doing lawnwork, cooking over a grill or serving dinners?

Me, I sort of went the opposite direction. I left academia, I quit my teaching job, I guess I dropped out …. to learn carpentry, woodworking, boatbuilding, mechanics, plumbing, all that stuff it takes to live closer to the land. Won’t say I got real good at any of them, but in a specialized world, it’s gratifying not to be specialized. I even learned a skill to make a living working with my hands. I’m not saying the kids are wrong — just saying there’s a satisfaction in making things, fixing things, building things. Oh, I know, you can do that in the virtual world. I work there too. When I have to ….

Course, there’s a lot of manual labor that isn’t too rewarding. You ask me, most labor isn’t, but then, you didn’t ask me. When I left the job force, I never expected to find anything that would pay me AND give me satisfaction. They seemed like polar opposites. So I count myself lucky. Blessed, if I can use a word so freighted with blissful la-la connotations.

The young folks I know struggling to find a niche in this consumer-crazed world, I tell em keep searching, don’t accept defeat, fight for meaning, don’t sell out or sell yourself short, you’ll find something you can invest your time and yourself in. Who knows, maybe it’s true if you believe it. I do. But then, I was willing to be poor. I don’t know many folks who would choose poverty over a soul-sucking job. Then again, they may get both.

Hits: 34

Hits: 19

Well, once again it’s St. Patrick’s Day, celebrating the patron saint of snake herders. Kind of the Blarney, a veritable green Bacchus. Truth is, unlike most holidays that cloak themselves in righteous symbolism or jingoist reverence, St’ Paddy’s is a drunkard’s dream, a celebration apparently created for the sole purpose of celebrating. Needless to say, it’s the National Holiday of the bibulous South End, Christmas and the 4th of July wrapped up in Presidents day and Labor Day, what we think of as the Real Thanksgiving.

Course, we treat ALL our holidays this way, but nevertheless, this one there’s no speeches, no symbolism, no prayers offered, no malarkey, no turkey, just bottoms UP!! And bring on the next glass….

Oh, I know, not everyone embraces Dionysian Day. The mizzus shakes her head, Pastor Roy down at the Little Church in the Ravine inveighs against bacchanalian excess, the Law puts on extra deputies —- all to little avail. Us South End hedonists look forward to St. Pat’s the way a Muslim yearns for Ramadan. We just don’t have to make much of a pilgrimage. And, of course, there are a few other crucial distinctions.

Hits: 119

Hits: 23

Every year I say the same thing: next year I’ll downsize our garden, maybe grow one tomato plant and a row of peas, toss in a row of greens for salads and call it Good. And every year, as sure as the plums blossom and the nettles rise up from the dead, I haul out the old rototiller and start planting two months too early. The pea seeds are gonna rot and the lettuce won’t come up, but I’ll plant again in a couple of weeks, about when the cherries bloom. Same as last year, same as the year before, same as every year since I moved here 37 years ago.

Who’s kidding who? I can buy vegetables WAY cheaper than most of what I grow. They practically give you potatoes by the time I’m digging ours. They even taste better than my scabby ones. Corn? I did quit corn last year. But I’m thinking maybe one token row would be tasty come fall. I can grow mutant squashes here to Stanwoodopolis, but I’m not real big on squash although maybe I should reconsider seeing’s how easy they are, sort of a fruiting kudzu.

And of course it’s a battle with slugs and snails, cabbage moths and cutworms, scabs and aphids, deer and rabbits, weeds and crows. We all want to eat, I guess. When they vote me in as God, I’ll do it different. Maybe just do it like the plants, grow on sun and air and water and dirt. Us animals turned Paradise into a Jungle. Tastes good, but kind of brutal at times.

It’s a lot of work, this gardening. But then, so is shopping. Bump cars with folks in a hurry, the parking lot mayhem, self serve registers trying to find the bin number for organic cauliflower not the Monsanto cauliflower, the bag choices, the plastic store card they swipe to track your buying habits, coupons and sales gimmicks. It’s a jungle in Safeway too.

And anyway, I didn’t move to the country to watch bad TV, I hope. I don’t kid myself — I’m not growing food here so much as I’m trying to get back to some Roots. I’ll have to share it with the vermin and the predators, the pests and the worms. Like always, I’ll have to learn to live with the neighbors, two legged, four legged, no legged or practically invisible. After all, we’re all in this thing together.

Hits: 20

Hits: 19

Hits: 19

You can tell volumes about South End history by examining our garbage evolution, sorta like counting rings on an old growth fir or the layer of ice deposits in a glacier. Science, a powerful tool. Well, for about half of us these days….

I still find old bottle dumps on our place — and back in the woods there are ravines that have entire cars, bedsteads, wringer washers, complete antique stores if this stuff wasn’t all rusted half away now. Back in the disco 70’s, we still drove our garbage up to Camano Hill where Frank guarded the official dump, pulling out future artifacts he brought home south of me, most of which are probably still there in a strata or two beneath the 21st century. Quite a few South Enders I know like to keep most everything they ever owned — usually just outside the back door where the nettles and blackberries claim it all. It’s an archeologist’s dream, for sure, someday centuries hence.

When the county closed the dump and sent Frank into an early retirement, we got a couple of coin operated dumpsters at our present location about 1980. Drive up, drop your quarters in, a lid lifted and a piston crunched what you tossed into an oozing pancake. Okay for a few trash bags, but not for, oh, roof shingles or construction debris. Pretty quick we got scales and semi-trailer size bins.

We even got primitive recycle. This was when you could sell aluminum and bottles back in town … and a lot of us penny pinchers did. At the dump you sorted your glass by color and watched out for yellowjackets drunk on stale beer and wine dregs. You had to tear the labels off all your cans, cut off the bottom and crush em first. The trash Nazis checked, believe me. A lot of work to throw away your bottles and cans back then…. Now it all goes into the Omni-Bin, paper, bottles, cans, boxes, all of it sorted out somewhere, somehow, by someone or something.

Most folks now have garbage pick-up, big green Waste Management trucks stop in once a week by the driveway, curbside service, E-Z payments. Me, I like hauling my own litter, oh, about every few months. Otherwise, how would I keep tabs on the island civilization? History, after all, is about half what we take to the dump. The other half is still back in the woods.

Hits: 56

Hits: 22

Back in the days when we wrenched on our cars — NOT for the love of vintage automobiles, but because we were too poor to have someone else repair them — we had just come back from the Rez junkyard where we’d pulled an automatic tranny out of another ’64 Impala half sunk in the swamps. Muddy nasty work, but you do what has to be done…. By late afternoon we had that transmission cleaned off and bolted onto our own Chevy up by the barn, and now the moment of truth had arrived so we fired up the Impala, ignored the bucket of parts with the ‘extra’ bolts and nuts and do-hickeys, dropped it off its jacks and headed up the road.

For the first mile we drove slow, feeling for sloppy shifts, listening for odd noises. Two miles up we hit 50mph and now terrible noises rose through the floorboards so we pulled over and crawled underneath. Sure enough, a few bolts were missing where the tranny connected to the bellhousing, no doubt those ‘extra’ parts back in the bucket by the barn. We cursed, we spit, we finally laughed at our stupidity, stuck our thumbs out and waited for a ride.

Joe Frittitelli swerved to the shoulder in his big Exxon Valdez of a cruiser, said hop in, boyz, and we squeezed between Joe and his girlfriend, all four of us in the front seat the spaciousness of a Montana wheatfield. A mile later Joe had to urinate ‘like a racehorse’ and since the driver’s door was no longer functional, all of us slid out the passenger side and waited while Seabiscuit relieved himself, then we all rolled back in across seas of amber grain. He dropped us on the roadside by our place, then sped off in a purple haze of half burnt oil.

We retrieved the lost bolts, hitched back to the crippled Impala, installed them and an hour later we were back at the shack, Jack, celebrating with some cold ones. A month later I’m working my job as weekend graveyard orderly down at the Everett Pain Motel and run into Joe at 3 AM wandering the desolate hallways. “What’s up, Joe?” I asked.

Joe, it seems, had been cleaning his gun late that night, pulled the trigger and lo and behold, the unanticipated bullet in the chamber was now embedded in his girlfriend’s brain. I had just taken her to the Cat Scan but hadn’t recognized her. She was comatose but alive. It was, needless to say, a long night. The police were convinced he’d shot her intentionally. I was convinced he hadn’t. If he had, he deserved an Academy Award.

She stayed up in ICU on life support for two months. Alive, I guess, but not really. Last we heard they moved her to a facility that cared for the comatose. Joe was never charged. He got cancer and moved away, where, we heard, he died. And …. not to sound too cold hearted or unsympathetic to the victims here, our Impala died too. The tranny was no good and we didn’t want to waste time or money on another bad one. I don’t think we wanted to meet any more neighbors either. Maybe it wasn’t so much we were dirt poor back then — as much as life seemed just way too cheap.

Hits: 111