Chapter 13. OUTDOOR LIFE
The next day, we took another walk into the woods. Rhino was in the lead, his purposeful stride easily matched by Barker Ajax, while I dawdled behind, then jogged to keep up.
Each of us guys was accompanied by our faithful canine companion. Mongo must have covered six miles for my two, and I couldn’t help but wonder where he got all his energy. I guess if I slept fourteen hours a day like the puppy did, I’d be feeling pretty rested up myself.
This was no nature hike. We were on a mission. It was time to plant our outdoor crop and, like most businesses, our success would be governed by three key considerations: location, location, location.
Outdoor growing is different from growing under lights. The risk to both the crop and the grower are greater, as are the number of variables. Indoors is a controlled environment, outdoors you are susceptible to all the challenges offered by Mother Nature.
And harvest hijackers. Thieves who take the bud booty a couple of days early, beating you to your earned-by-the-sweat-of-your-brow-hard-work-and-the-grace-of-God just deserts. Crop dusters of the worst sort.
Not to mention the law. Security, as always, was the first concern.
Fifteen minutes after we left the house, Rhino hopped the ditch off the beaten path and plunged through a break in the blackberry bushes into dense undergrowth. A deer off-ramp. Fifteen feet from the dirt road the brush untangled, here the men could stand up tall, the forest floor a spongy carpet of pine needles and fallen boughs. A high canopy of thick foliage blocked the sun. The air felt heavy and moist, dank and musty as if your head was buried inside an old mushroom. The only sound was breaking twigs under our feet.
“You can practically hear the decomposition going on,” Barker said. “Sure can smell it.”
About which time we burst out into a clearing, bright and sunny.
“This is the place,” Rhino said solemnly, sounding pleased with himself for having located this oasis in the woods. Like a religious leader.
The place was a hillside meadow, perhaps a half acre in size, facing southwest, surrounded completely by tall trees, which stood like mohawk-headed bouncers around a concert stage.
“Good place to grow grapes,” Barker said.
“You’d have to be directly overhead to locate this spot,” explained Rhino. “Or totally lost.”
“Or looking real hard,” I offered.
“Well, you can’t expect to eliminate all the risk,” Barker said. “That’s just life.”
“Wouldn’t do any good to try,” Rhino muttered. “Let’s check the perimeter.”
We strolled along the edge of the field. I watched the dogs romp around. Two dogs actually. Diva was leaping at butterflies, while dirt flew out from behind Mongo’s furious paws. Apparently he’d found a mole hole. The Black Gang and Andy were more businesslike, content to accompany us humans.
“Our Founding Fathers grew hemp, you know,” Rhino said. “Washington and Jefferson each had a patch. It’s an American tradition.”
“Too bad they didn’t write marijuana into the Bill of Rights.”
“Oh, it’s in there alright. Called “pursuit of happiness.”
“Does seem strange.”
“What’s that?”
“A democracy which hunts down folks growing a harmless weed.”
“Yeah,” Rhino agreed with a little smile. “Keep a poor dirt farmer from making a living,”
“Not to mention a capitalist system which continues to pump billions of dollars into a war on drugs,” Barker said, “a war unwon after decades. Any other situation, we’d demand results, we’d recognize this police action for what it is, a tremendous waste of money, money better spent elsewhere.”
“Like supporting the arts,” I offered, parroting one of Mother’s favorite suggestions.
The men didn’t say anything.
“Education,” I added.
They just kept walking.
“Cleaning up the environment.” I was rolling now.
“Some folks would say, the drug war is cleaning up the environment,” Rhino said. “Get rid of all the riffraff.”
“Putting space pioneers on Mars,” I quipped, starting to get preposterous, “or universal healthcare.”
“Medical lobbyists on Pluto sounds good to me.”
“Building prisons is better than growing marijuana, I suppose,” said Barker cynically. “Better to blame other people for our problems than to seek real solutions.”
“Create new jobs,” I continued.
“There’s the rub,” Rhino said. “War, any war, always creates new jobs. New prisons have become a growth industry. Look at the bureaucracy that’s been created to fight drugs. It’s huge.”
“New cops are hired, school teachers are fired,” Barker noted. “Where’s the sense in that?”
“Simple,” Rhino answered. “Cops are better qualified to operate the metal detectors at the front door to the schoolhouse.”
Barker laughed out loud at that.
“We had a policeman teach us a class today,” I said.
Barker stopped laughing. Rhino pretended not to take any particular notice of what I’d said. He tried to act cool, but both their heads turreted toward me, their eyes aimed like the barrels of a gun.
“Yeah, the D.A.R.E. officer. Drug Awareness Resistance Education.”
The two men waited for me to continue.
So I did. “Sure. There’s a cop in our classroom all day, one day a week. He’s been there for months.”
“How come you never mentioned this before?,” Rhino asked.
“No big deal. Never came up, I guess.”
“Cops in the classroom pretty routine, are they?”
“Seemed like just another teacher, armed and in a different uniform.”
“What does Mr. Policeman teach?”
“The usual. Low self-esteem. Peer pressure. Risk taking. Decision making. Don’t drink. Don’t smoke. Same stuff Mom is always saying.”
“Don’t sound like it could hurt.”
“Also, just say no to drugs.”
“That’s understood, I guess. Good advice, like it or not.”
“Don’t drink and drive.”
“Smart.”
“Has Mr. Policeman figured out yet how to explain why beer and cigarettes are legal and other drugs are illegal?”
“Nothing that makes much sense,” I had to admit.
“He won’t, either.”
“Sometimes he brings successful high school students with him, athletes or student leaders usually.”
“Jock stars and politicos. What a shame,” Barker said. “Ever bring in the guy with the highest grades? The shy girl who writes poetry?”
“The officer has lunch with us, too. Recess, even. He’s been umpiring our games.”
“First kid who tries to steal a base gets shot, I’ll bet.”
“Oh yeah,” I said. “There’s another thing. If our parents are using drugs, we supposed to call 9-1-1. Turn them in.”
This time Rhino laughed.
“People have to start realizing kids are the product of the home,” he said. “Raise’m right when they’re young, you won’t have so much trouble when they get older.” He gave me a look, wasn’t loving, wasn’t threatening. Just a look. “You can’t abdicate your responsibilities to cops and schools. Ain’t I right, Zac?”
“You are right, Rhino.”
He is right. These conversations were routine on our farm. As deeply involved as we were in the marijuana business, for as long as we’d been involved, given the stakes, twenty years in prison, your property confiscated, well, the political realities around here were constantly under scrutiny.
Mother always tried to drill into me, it’s important to understand the nature of politics. People and power, power and people. Lately, power and power seemed to be the direction of the world. We puzzled mightily about the ebb and flow of freedom.
We talked a lot about cultural stuff, too.
Talking. Sharing our thoughts. Just another part of our security system. Like taking one day at a time and always moving on. Getting a dog to watch your back.
When the D.A.R.E program ended, half my male classmates wanted to be cops themselves.
A few days later a slender young woman with thick glasses and a prim nautical-looking dress came to class and talked to us about sexual abstinence. Sexually-transmitted diseases. Prophylactics. I tried to imagine her with her clothes off.
She wouldn’t answer any questions about abortions or homosexuality, although one of the kids jokingly suggested “homos,” his word, seem to have solved the right-to-life controversy. There’s a message for you: sex is bad, sexism is funny.
School is certainly educational, but I can’t help wishing we read more books there.