Across the way as the crow flies, two hills over, right next door… Hank is replanting his pot garden. He is happy to hear that the new president would be suspending the CAMP raids that had plagued his production for the past twenty years.
He was convinced that legalizing marijuana would lead to increased revenue for the government and he hoped to be the beneficiary of the relaxed stance. He had been one of the early back-to-the-land hippies to move into the canyon. He recalled the animosity between the new counter culture residents and the old time traditionalists.
When little Flower Child dressed in tie dye and little Benjamin dressed in tough skins met and began partying together, trading kisses, dime bags, and beer, there was trouble in River City. The redneck parents did not like these hippies moving into their territory, setting up communes, and growing marijuana. The hippies just wanted peace, love, and understanding. But they also didn’t approve of so much yah-hoo boozing.
Everything changed when the Ridge Fire broke out. Both sides pitched in together to fight the siege of the thirty foot walls of flame on both sides of the valley. Loggers got their equipment out and started moving dirt and logs into place. Hippies joined the volunteer fire department. Everyone helped their neighbors. Even Marianna was out there chopping trails. Peace finally reigned in the canyon. There were still quarrels, of course, but generally, people worked together now for the common good. After all, their kids went to school together.
Will snipped at his plants removing suckers, clipping leaves here and there to encourage the growth of the large colas he desired. He removed any male plants as he was attempting to grow only the female sinsemilla. No one really wanted to deal with fiery seeds popping holes in their shirts anymore.
Growing pot really was a science. It required the proper light, nutrition, air circulation, trimming, and weeding (no pun intended) to make the best quality. By today’s prices, Hank figured he’d have enough cash to put his daughter through another year of college.
Funny about that Second Amendment he thought. The hunters and gun enthusiasts who were his neighbors argued for their rights, and now he was right there beside them. Although he tried to keep his production a secret, word had gotten out. For the past twenty years he had hired an armed guard and trained watch dogs who would attack on his command to keep his crop safe.
He had an arsenal at his disposal. It was funny to him, a former peace protester during the Viet Nam War, a Dead Head hippie wearing tie dye with a full beard, a long head of hair, and a joint hanging out of his mouth toting everything from a .22 to an AK 47. Peace, Love, and the Second Amendment!
(First published 1/31/12)
