The Skeeter Daddle Diaries

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Judge Jack was kicking himself. Down at the South End Senior Center a sculpture they’d thought had been donated 12 years ago was now in Limbo. The donator’s brother had seen it there, seen it for the first time, and since they had owned it when they ran their restaurant into a backwash bankruptcy, he now wanted it back. The Center had grown fond of the carved basswood dolphin over the years and they were more than reluctant to give it back. Statue of limitations, apparently….

What to do, what to do??? Turn it over to an arbitrator, of course, some poor sap who would willingly step into the vise. Who you gonna call? Judge Jack. And Jack had said naively, sure, he’d mediate. Now he regretted it. No King Solomon decision here, he soon learned to his dismay. Someone was going to be sorely disappointed and he would take the fall, maybe lose a friend. “Let em flip a coin,” Two Toke Tom advised. “The Gods of Fate, my friend. Better than the judicial system, you ask me.” Two Toke, naturally, thought a septic system was superior to the judicial, having been harassed for most of his so-called adult life over recreational preferences and underground agriculture. Two Toke was legendary for a life of minor cannabis crime and he was a man who held a grudge.

Judge Jack sipped his latte thoughtfully. Tom was usually in geosynchronous orbit a bit too far out to take seriously, but he had a point. Flipping a coin might be the way to go. Nobody right, nobody wrong, no judge hung on his own petard. Just bad luck calling that head over tails. Way of the world. Keep the dolphin, lose the dolphin. Jeez, who cares when the Middle East is collapsing into sectarian war? Just art, after all and Judge Jack knew better than most that art in corporate America was worth about what bitcoins were on the South End. And sinking fast.

Flip a coin and walk away. “How you gonna rule, Judge?” Tom smirked over his coffee. Jack shook his head sadly, shoved his mug into the center of the table. “Refill?” Brenda asked, holding the coffee pot, working the tables. Jack said mournfully, “Hell if I know, Brenda. Come back in five minutes. I got to give it more thought.”

Tom fairly howled. He slapped the table. “Hit me again, Brenda.”

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The South End String Band didn’t start out planning to be a band — they were mostly a back porch drinking society with music as a viable excuse to offer their wives for staying out til after midnight. What most of them didn’t know was how grateful the mizzus was to have a peaceful evening to herself. Well, at least until Shelly joined the band.

For years the boys hauled out their guitars and banjos, pulled their fiddles off the wall and strung up all those mandolin strings, met up down at the South End Grange Hall where Tommy the fiddler was Master. In the beginning they were all much more proficient on the jug than on their own instruments, but as often happens with practice, they got better. And as they got more proficient, they drank a little less and began to talk playing in public. When the South End Historical Society asked them to perform for their annual salmon bake fundraiser, they jumped on the opportunity. “Can’t pay you anything,” Edith Wonkszeski told the boys, “but we’ll feed you. And the beers are on us.” That sounded more than fair, Tommy told her and warned her to stock up on those beers, you might lose money on this band.

And so the newly named South End String Band went public. If they liked drinking and strumming, they loved live performances for an appreciative audience twice as much as both put together. Trouble was, they soon found out, none of the boys could sing outside a shower worth a hoot or a holler. Billy on the banjo tried, but he sort of talked his way through, not really sang. And then Shelly came up to them after a gig at the Mabana Sunset Villa Nursing Home and said, “You ought to give me a listen.”
Which they did. She came to the next practice wearing a low cut cowgirl dress and even if she’d sung out of tune, the boys knew she’d be their new vocalist. It didn’t hurt either she could outdrink every manjack of them.

The South End String Band still performs, but after a couple of divorces, the personnel have shifted frequently. Shelly fronts the band now and she’s pretty much the last remaining original member. You can always find a banjo picker in the backwash here, but not another Shelly. The Band practices at her cabin these days and when the night winds down past midnight, Shelly shows the boys the door and always says, “Jug’s empty, boys, time to face the music.” It would be funnier if it wasn’t so godawful true.

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Don’t ask me why, but lately I seem to be shopping with animals. Mostly dogs on leashes with owners who don’t mind bringing their fleas into the deli. I’m sure they’re what we call these days ‘Service Animals’. The majority of folks with these critters don’t seem handicapped, but then, who am I to judge? We all got our issues, some crippling, some not. Who knows, I might need a guide ferret myself before too long.

The other day I was in the local grocery’s produce section, squeezing celery, checking melons, test driving the rutabagas when this guy walks up next to me with a parrot on his shoulder. He wasn’t shopping for much since he didn’t have a cart or a basket. Maybe the bird was the one doing the shopping. “Crackers are next aisle over,” I said, just to be helpful. And to get him and Polly away from contaminating my vegetables, parrots being known to carry a fatal disease us homo sapiens can catch. Bluebeard came closer, obviously pleased someone was noticing his bird perched on his shoulder.

“I take Morris everywhere,” he beamed, proud as punch, which, I thought, was exactly what he needed. All this yahoo was missing was a peg leg, a Jolly Roger on his tricorn and a treasure map tattoo that showed the gold in the dairy section.

“I like to leave my animals back at the farm,” I said. “Something about food and bird flu makes me squeamish.” Before he could go Aaaarrhh, I wheeled down the line. I could come back for veggies, I figured, after Cap’n Hook moved on.

“Bite me,” a voice called out. I whirled around and the parrot repeated it. “Bite me, bite me.” My pirate looked mightily pleased with himself, no doubt having spent hours teaching Polly this witticism. I shook my head sadly. Sinbad grinned, snapped me a salute and headed for the fruit section. It’s a strange world … and not just on the South End.

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