My father and
mother had been able to ignore what Brenda was
doing up North. If anyone asked, they would reply vaguely that she
was living
on a ranch. Now, since everyone in their circle knew that Brenda
was the
"difficult" child in the Funk family, there was usually
no further inquiry that
might prove embarrassing. Like maybe having to say that the "ranch"
was
actually an expensive funny farm. This was not an uncommon solution
to the
difficult child syndrome in my family's circle of friends, especially
since
most of them were well heeled. There was, it was understood, no
need to keep
the weird member around to say funny things at parties.
Brenda once
broke up a meeting of the League of Women Voters (Mother had
thought to divert Brenda's sexual leanings through useful community
work) by
fiercely suggesting that they get off their butts and bomb the oppressive
male-dominated corporation centers, starting right there in San
Diego. This was
not met with overwhelming sympathy, since most of the League ladies
had
husbands and sons in said corporate offices. But they were reasonably
polite
when they ejected her.
That was when
she was really militant. These days, she is just busy growing her
pot. But once in a while she will still go picket a nuclear power
plant, or sit
in the path of loggers trying to cut down more redwoods.
In a way, Brenda
is crazy. To her mind, the loggers like cutting down
redwoods. The reason has nothing to do with profit. It's only, she
says,
because men can't stand anything with a bigger cock than theirs,
and a redwood
looks to them like an enormous penis. That's one argument. The next
minute,
she'll turn around and say that we have men to blame for the sorry
state of
modern architecture because all they want to do is build substitute
pricks of
steel and concrete that will never go limp. She sees no contradiction
in these
two opinions.
But there's
another side to my sister that's not strident or crazy at all. That
side is a gentle and loving woman who tries to take care of the
earth she lives
on. And she has never actually thrown a bomb in her life.
It has slowly
dawned on me that a lot of people who turned out to be outlaw
growers in the woods were people just like Brenda. They broke the
law
consistently, and had been doing so ever since college, when they
took
antigovernment stands over Viet Nam, or maybe civil rights. And
yet, they were
so damned peaceful. Here in Humboldt there was no authenticated
instance of a
grower ever firing on a law officer...at least until 1984, when
'Boohoo' fired
on a plane with a handgun. But even the helicopters that came buzzing
out of
the sky like Viet Nam leftovers were never shot at. There were cases,
of
course, of "rip-offs" being disposed of. And the one full-fledged,
nationally
newsworthy murder was committed by two guys who weren't growers
at all, but two
bums from the Central Valley who knew where this woman lived alone,
and that
she wouldn't have a gun because she was so antiviolence.
See what I mean?
We're outsiders. Technically, even outlaws. Yet we're a real
bunch of softies. The Law, however, never seem to get the message.
They always
come armed, like the P.L.O. was just around the corner, with flak
jackets,
automatic weapons...and as many reporters as they can corral for
"media day."
Uh huh, I know
what you're saying: "There's nothing worse than a convert."
Damn
right. Especially when that convert is well on his way to making
a hundred
thousand this year. Well, maybe not quite that much. But I'm really
going to
get organized next year, for sure.
I know it can
be done. I know for a fact that there are guys up here who have
crews working for them, who come in with heavy equipment and armed
guards, and
cooks for the mess hall...the works. And those are the guys who
pull real money
out of their crops. They're organized, they're big business.
I'm just not
ready for that size organization yet. I've got to get one decent
crop out first.
I have made
improvements. Yeah, I'm still in a tent, but I've enlarged the
parking area and cleared a lot of brush around the living space.
My privy
doesn't leak anymore, unless the wind comes from the south, and
I've built a
greenhouse to hold my seedlings. It measures just eight by ten,
and the only
time it's heated is when I remember to take my little propane heater
out there
at night.
I suppose others
would wonder just what I've done with all my money. I mean,
first I inherit a sizable chunk from my Grandma, and then I make
loot from a
couple of dope crops. So why ain't I rich? Let me put a few things
in
perspective here. First of all, most of the inherited money went
into getting
my land, and living through the first year, including buying the
4 by 4
truck. There was also a small sum spent on my winter wanderings
with Kiki and
Rain. Then, the money from my first crop, which I admit, didn't
come to much,
what with one fuckup and another, had to go on year number two's
land payments
and living expenses. Then, I spent my bond money on another trip
with
Kiki. After that, I made a little extra, which I buried. Buried
because I, like
the average member of the underground economy, am hampered by various
laws and
regulations...income tax laws, mainly...that prevent me from investing
my money
like an honest citizen. Now, when I get to be one of those bigtime,
organized
growers I was talking about, I'll be able to get my cash to the
Cayman Islands,
or buy gold, or diamonds. But right now, it's just buried here on
my land. And
if you think honesty will force a hint out of me as to where, you
should
examine your marbles.
I bury my dope,
too...before I sell it. There's this short time between harvest
and my trip south when I have to store my crop. I got that advice
from Reg,
who, even though he abhors plastic as much as he does meat eating,
found that a
heavy duty plastic trash can with a tight fitting lid, buried in
the ground,
will keep the dope safe until marketing time.
Once in a while,
a grower can come home from a night on the town or a shopping
trip to Eureka, to find unsavory characters waiting there for him.
These guys
are wise as to how crops are buried, so they tie up the women (and
kids, if
there are any), and rough up the man until he reveals the location
of the
stash. It isn't pretty.
I guess outsiders
would have good reason to claim that this job is riskier than
selling sound equipment at Pacific Stereo. I admit it. It's riskier
than I was
first aware of. Brenda, of course, never told me, and what did I
know back
then?
That first year,
scared and lonely, I decided to call it quits more times than
I can count. I wasn't a kid any longer. My resiliency was gone.
I was sure I
should have stayed in San Diego, where it was warm and easy, and
let David and
Dad invest my inheritance for me. My old age seemed to loom closer
by the
day. And frankly, I didn't want to be living in a tent at the age
of seventy,
and staring down a privy hole. By then, I'd at least want plumbing
and TV.
But Kiki helped
me through the night...many nights, and Brenda bolstered my
hope that even I, the Funk klutz, could find happiness and a comfortable
dotage
by sticking it out a little longer.
I'm glad I stayed.
When I get up mornings, along about April 15th, while all
the jerks in Silicon Valley are sweating over their income taxes,
and the sun
is hitting the mountain tops, and the air is nippy but promising
warmth, I know
I made the right decision. The jays are raising a racket, and there's
a patch
of wildflowers, still nameless to me (I'm no naturalist) under those
trees that
I swear wasn't there yesterday, then I'm not a bit envious of my
brother, the
doctor, who just about that time is fighting traffic and fumes on
his way to
the office for yet another day of striving. The thing that took
me a while to
understand, though, is that he's happy doing what he's doing, and
that when I
knock him it's mostly because I'm the oldest, so I should have been
the
doctor. I was unhappy about that for a long time. But now that I'm
happy with
my life, I don't have to knock his any more. I think that's some
kind of
maturity.
I saw a pair
of river otters the other day. A lot of animals around here seem
to come in pairs, or even families. One night I saw a family of
racoons out by
my trash dump, having a picnic. I had a fox around here last year,
but I
haven't seen him lately. Spiro doesn't get overly loud with these
critters. He
has a sort of live-and-let-live bark for most of them. Except when
he raises a
ruckus at deer or people coming up the road. Somebody must have
trained him for
that. I found him...or, he found me...shortly after I'd put up my
tent. He
appeared out of nowhere, and just started hanging around. I asked
all the
neighbors who he belonged to, but he was evidently a stranger who
either had
gotten lost, or been deserted by some guy who, when he had his crop
in, took
off for a tour of the South Seas.
That happens
a lot. A dog, even a cat or two, are good tools on a grow in the
woods. Rodent and deer control can't be done entirely with a roll
of chicken
wire and a bunch of traps. So most guys, roughing it, like I am,
with no steady
old lady around, pick up a dog and a couple of cats. They don't
mean to make
pets of them. (That's what I mean by not having an old lady. Women
tend to get
maternal about animals on a place.) And when the season is over,
or they want
to move on, they shoot the cats, and drop the dog off on some likely
looking
road.
It sounds mean,
I know. I couldn't do it. I've had Spiro for going on three
years now, and he still won't bark very loud at porcupines, which
he should,
because they do a lot of damage, and he still looks like a mismatched
set of
golf clubs, all knobs and bumps. But he barks at deer, and he saved
my crop
from the rip-offs. I mean, he really earns that bowl of kibble he
gets every
evening, and the time in the boarding kennel when I take off on
vacation.
When I was a
kid, we had a family dog. Having a dog was what families are
supposed to do for their kids, right? The Funk family dog was a
long-haired
dachshund. You had to be careful about picking him up because he
had this weird
elongated back that could get bent out of shape if one foot so much
as left the
ground. (Don't ask me how he peed.) But mother liked him, and sometimes
he was
allowed to sleep in Brenda's room. When he died, he wasn't replaced.
But I've already
gone through all of that with my analyst, when I had my
teenage therapy. Most doctor's kids get therapy in their teens.
We also get
braces on our teeth, and nose jobs almost for free. (A professional
courtesy.)
The therapy is like braces for our little egos. Somehow, it's supposed
to be
harder growing up with a doctor for a father than an ordinary guy.
I personally
think it might be worse having, say, a used car salesman for a dad.
Worse yet
would be a dope grower. With that, Kiki agrees, which is one reason
she won't
move in with me.
Anyhow, when
I see all those pairs of wildlife types wandering around I feel
like I'm out of tune with nature, somehow, like a rogue elephant
or
something. But Kiki says she doesn't want to have Rain run the risk
of waking
up one morning to helicopters buzzing over our heads, and me being
dragged off
to the Eureka jail while she and the kid hide out in the woods.
So for now,
I've got Spiro, period. After I make a really big haul, I'll quit
growing altogether. After I've got my land paid for and a house
built, I bet
Kiki would move in with me. And maybe by that time, Rain will have
left
home. At eighteen the welfare checks stop coming.
Brenda gave
me a compliment the other day. She said I'd surprised her by
staying on. She'd thought I'd throw in the towel after I'd had such
a bad first
year. I could have sold my land for a profit then, probably, and
split back to
San Diego. I still could. As long as they keep growing dope, as
as long as
there are people willing to pay a bundle for it, the value of land
here goes
nowhere but up.
My dad would
be proud of me if I sold out at a profit. But if I went that route...moved
back to San Diego and rejoined the family...I'd have to do things
like start shaving again, and get more than two haircuts a year.
I doubt if I could hack it now. The lack of habits dies hard.
Brenda says
we are a branch of the family that got rerusticated. She reminds
the folks every chance she gets that the Funks and most of our other
ancestors
were Eastern European Jews who lived in the Russian Shtetl. In other
words:
peasants. So if she and I are throwbacks on the family tree, who
should give a
damn? Surely not Grandma and Grandpa Funk, now presumably in Temple
Beth
Heaven. Surely not Abraham, who was just a big time goatherd, when
you come
right down to it. But my folks do not like to hear this. They usually
turn on
the TV at this corner of a conversation.
My neighbor
down the road, John Smith (he swears that's his real name, or
close), has offered me a couple of billy goat kids and some cockerels.
He and
his family are vegetarians, so while they use the goat milk and
eggs, they are
stumped about what to do with all the excess animals they end up
with. I guess
I could take them up on the deal, and butcher the critters. That's
really what
they want; they just can't bring themselves to say so. But what
would I do with
a half dozen capons and a couple of butchered kids? Throw a barbeque?
I don't
even have electricity, let alone a freezer. Maybe I should start
a herd, like
my ancestor Abraham. Keep the billys and get some nannys. Kiki says
I am really
reverting, and that what I need is a quick trip to a beach in Mexico
to regain
my balance. I dunno. A herd would be cozy on long winter nights.
