The Skeeter Daddle Diaries

Some days I don’t know why I get up early and read the morning news. I might just as well sleep in and then, prior to that first cup of joe, slam my thumb with a hammer so it will throb the rest of the day, helping me forget the world beyond the pain. But no, I walk down the path from the house to the mailbox, passing the rhododendrons in bloom, the birds calling from the shrubs, the sun filtering through the foliage of exotic trees … only to snatch my newspapers from their plastic coffin and head back up the trail reading snippets of the day’s insanity.

Today, what the meteorologist promised would be a warm and sunny prelude to summer, turned ominous and dark as I read about the number of folks in my America who believe completely in Qanon, about one in five of us. Or, as the article pointed out, more of us than any mainstream religion’s believers. I know I’ll be turning that over in my head all day long, trying to wrap my mind around the notion that 20% of my friends and neighbors believe there is a cabal of Satanists who control the government, media and financial worlds and oh, while they’re at it, run a child sex ring. If ignorance is bliss, heaven awaits you.

And here I was worried about the Covid plague … little guessing that the real menace was the worm that had burrowed into the brains of a sizeable percentage of my fellow countrymen and reduced them to paranoid babblers of cockamamie idiocies no sane person could possibly believe. The Dark Ages are back apparently and spreading a black sheet over the home of the brave, land of the feeble with no vaccine in sight and even if there was one, these folks would refuse to be inoculated by the pederast priests of their new enemy.

Wearing a mask probably won’t help now. The worm spreads on the internet, passed from ‘friend’ to ‘friend’, an invisible pod like the one in Invasion of the Body Snatcher, this one rewiring the circuits of the brains of their victims. Unplug your computer! Turn off your TV! Board the windows andbolt the doors! Do not answer your phone! But by all means, be afraid! It isn’t the pederasts who are coming for you.

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Once again us folks down at the South End lag far behind the entrepreneurs in Stanwoodopolis. Why do we invariably read in the paper about those enterprising innovative capitalists who beat us every time to the punch? Is there something in our well water that stunts our imaginations?

This week I read in the Stanwoodopolis Gazette how a couple had bought aging alpacas at pennies on the hoof, then killed them and blended the meat into a savory pet food. We got old horses down here. Donkeys too. Not to mention llamas and alpacas — all of em eating hay and oats without much economic return to their owners. The government will pay you 1000 bucks to take wild horses and some of those folks quick turned around and sold them to meat processors. What a concept: take these tired old animals and grind them into fresh dog food. Geez, when the dogs get old, grind them up too! You got a practically endless food chain and profit margin.

Now, admittedly the folks who originated this meat market marvel fell afoul of the laws governing the humane treatment of animals in their care prior to butchering them. Turned out their animals weren’t really all that old, mostly 1-4 years, kind of kids really, and the owners weren’t feeding them much either, basically starving them. Poor animal husbandry, you ask me, and the vet who accompanied the sheriff thought so too just before they confiscated the herd. Not even a good business plan, starving the little guys instead of fattening them up. Quite a few died of malnourishment afterwards, a damn shame to waste that meat, some might say. Well, the owners …. The rest of us probably felt like they ought to be ground up themselves and fed to the dogs.

All I can say is it gives entrepreneurism a bad name. And just another excuse for us layabouts down here to avoid capitalist enterprises. As usual ….

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I’m out in the Dairy State right now, halfway into moving my father from an independent living apartment to the assisted living one at the far wing of the complex he’s been at less than a month. Part of the building is in Lockdown, part in quarantine, so you can imagine the logistics of moving furniture and the rest of his belongings are fairly daunting. So far so good. Last move a month ago we managed to get him into the apartment, then the entire complex shut down, no one out, no one in.

This time we’re crossing fingers and throwing the dice, moving piece meal in case the cell doors slam shut once again and he’s locked into a mostly empty apartment, no visitors, no exit. The place is called Attic Angels, what I now call Attica. Tomorrow, Allah willing, we move the last stuff, bed, kitchen table, chairs and … him. Once we move him we can’t visit on the lockdowned side he’s moving to. I fly home the next day but my brother won’t be able to visit until, hopefully, a few days later when the 14 day quarantine expires.

Strange times. Meanwhile life goes on. Yesterday my brother and I went to the Toyota dealership to pick up a van he’d ordered months ago. Sharks in the kiddie pool, believe me, when you walk inside where the sales personnel wait filing down their teeth. Standing at the main entrance, my mask on and a South End String Band ball cap on my long hair hanging below my collar half a foot, who should I see but a friend we’d just seen two weeks ago. Now you might walk up and surprise him by just being here 2000 miles from home, but me, no sir, I bounced up and greeted him with my best land shark imitation and a ‘What kind of vehicle can we put you in today, sir?’

Well, fun is fun, but finally I dropped the mask and dropped the act. It took him a second to rearrange reality, but we had a good laugh. By the time my brother had title to his new van, my pal’s friend had bought a car too. On our way out I strolled over to their table and said, ‘I trust our sales staff met your expectations.’ Tomorrow I’m going to send him a survey asking him to rate that service. Life, as the philosophers say, goes on ….

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There was a study recently — I know, who believes those anymore? — where college students were tested with smart phones on them, with smartphones in their packs and with smartphones left in an adjacent room. Nobody used them, nobody answered calls, nobody googled anything, but in the end the kids with phones on their person scored worse than the ones with phones in their packs. The highest scores were those of the students whose phones were left in the adjoining room. I would’ve loved to know how kids — if there are any left — would score if they had never owned a smarty phone at all. The conclusion the researchers reached was something on the line that smartphones make us dumber. Since I don’t own a smartphone, you can well imagine my pleasure at learning this. Or, if you’re a slave to the device, you’ll say I’m full of shit and the study was faux science.

I got a buddy, Computer Carl, who was the first guy I knew who bought a GPS. He visited us with it proudly mounted on his dash and we all listened — in amazement — to the female voice in perfect enunciation — command us to turn left, proceed point six miles, turn left again, or if we screwed up, recalculate and order new revised instructions. Carl, being a techie, gleefully obeyed her every edict.

Invariably we’d be driving home down the island and the smarty pants GPS lady would tell him to turn left at the corner where we always go straight, no doubt calculating distance, not time, and Carl, who never remembered the route even after two or three dozen visits and one hundred trips, would turn left. No, I’d say each of those 100 times, go straight, but Carl trusted the GPS more than me, a 40 year resident, and — here’s my point — more than HIS own memory. This is what we’d call now, Google Brain. Why trouble yourself learning and memorizing (and possibly using) that stored information if you can just google it up?

Maybe when I have Alzheimers I’ll have a better answer for that. You know, if I can remember where I put my smarty phone….

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When I got my Covid vaccination, hoo boy, was I a happy camper, glad I wouldn’t be coming down with the virus, spending a few quality weeks alone with a ventilator tube shoved down my gullet, waiting for a miserable death. A lot of folks around me decided for various reasons not to get the vaccine. Some were afraid of side effects, some believed Trump even though he himself secretly ran out and got himself inoculated, some just believed the whole coronavirus thing was a hoax. Who knows? And after I had mine, who cares? They can roll the dice. Polio? Probably a hoax too, all us little kids rolling up our sleeves for a poke in the arm when really it was all bogus, no doubt a scam perpetrated by the pharmaceutical industrial complex to make another few billion.

Now that we’ve reached about the maximum number of people who will willingly take the vaccine, it’s obvious we aren’t going to reach what the media calls herd immunity. This virus will just rattle around in the population that refuses to take the shot and over time it will mutate and eventually we’ll all be back to Pandemic Year One. Freedom, sometimes it isn’t quite as simple as it sounds. So … what’s a country to do? Well, since we don’t have federal guidelines we just wait to see what the governor or the mayor or whoever wants to weigh in on this stuff finally decides to do. Some just want to call it quits, let everyone go back to partying, let the chips fall where they may. Some are still trying to encourage folks to take their damn medicine. In fact there are incentives being offered for doing just that.

You didn’t feel like helping us end this pandemic, okay, how about we reward you if you get the vaccine? Money, chance at the lottery, free college education, beer, hunting license? There are a dozen inducements, each one varying by state or county or city. But the idea is to bribe the recalcitrant into rolling up their sleeves and helping the rest of us out. Call me cynical but I can’t imagine for a beer some redneck Covid denier is going to let the damn govamint stick a needle filled with god only knows what into his tattoo. Maybe a free hunting license, but I doubt it. Throw in the deer and okay, 50/50.

I suppose all of us suckers that happily took the injection are thinking if only we’d waited, maybe we could have gotten that free money or a car or maybe a vacation in some Covid-free paradise island. Well, there’s always the next pandemic. Lesson learned.

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About a month ago I flew back to Wisconsin to help my brother move our father into an independent apartment down at the assisted living complex, what we called the Big House. Our mother had died there a few years back in the nursing units while the Old Man stayed up at the house and visited three times every day. She could never understand why he didn’t move down there with her, but we did. At the end she was hard to live with and when she died our father never mentioned her again. ‘Til death do us part’ must’ve meant something to him.

So we no sooner got him moved from his house to the new apartments when the entire complex went into Lockdown, some staff person having come up positive for Covid, which meant I wouldn’t see the Old Man the rest of my time back there, something we hadn’t anticipated or else we would have waited until the pandemic had settled down to something you could drown in a bathtub. When I left to fly home, he seemed to be acclimating just fine to his new accommodations, but about a week later he took a dive, seemed to lose his focus sounded a hundred years old even though he is 98 and made us wonder if he’d had a small stroke or old age had just caught up to him finally.

Either way we decided the time had come to move into the assisted living quarters, get some nursing help, have his meals delivered, let folks keep a watch on him. I made arrangements to fly out in a few days, a bit sad that we were moving him so soon but hey, it had to happen sooner or later. Just a lot sooner than we dreamed. Yesterday my brother called to say the Big House had gone into total Lockdown again, no visitors, nobody allowed in or out, no sons allowed to move their father to the other side of the building. Everything right now is on hold.

My brother and I aren’t the type who second guess themselves. We made a call and at the time it seemed like the right call. Now, of course, we might have done it different, maybe let him stay in his house another few months, then move him down to the apartments. Course, he might have gone downhill at home and that would be worse with no assisted living to move into if it were in Lockdown.

But … it looks like from out here we’ve put him in a very nice upscale penitentiary. And worse, he’s in solitary confinement. I suppose I’ll be back there before too long. If we can’t move him to the care units, I’ll have to bring him a cake. One with the hacksaw baked inside….

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