One day while
standing in a long line at the Bank of America
in Garberville, I looked around and wondered where all the Hippies
were coming
from. Young Hippies, like the bunch just ahead of me. I mean, you
don't see
Hippy recruiting posters tacked up around the country. (A Hippy
poster would
obviously look like a R. Crumb cartoon version of the 'Uncle Sam
wants you'
classic) the real Hippies were my age and older. Where did all these
kids in
their twenties get the idea? Aren't they the group that is supposed
to be the
"me" generation who dress for success? It must be the
grower influence. I guess
because the first generation of growers in Humboldt were Hippies,
the
subsequent groups adopted the look as 'in'; it isn't hard to adopt...the
only
easier look is 'Hobo'.
I didn't look
anything like a Hippy when I arrived in Garberville. Now when I
lived in the Haight that one wonderful year in the 60's, I looked
the part, but
it didn't hold through the army. Later when I went to work for Pacific
Stereo,
I became the model young bachelor. Styled (not merely cut, but styled)
hair,
trimmed moustache, and an 'in' cologne like 'Brut'. It reeked of
the right
image. Back then, I spent a bundle to get the right look. I even
had a suit,
in case of weddings or funerals. There weren't many of either. My
group didn't
get married and rarely died.
My first year
in Humboldt, I got a truck, a tent, a dog and a beard. My blue
jeans gradually took on a torn and tattered look that matched my
worn and
tattered T-shirts and my battered cowboy hat. It would take only
a glance to
identify me as a Humboldt Grower...if that's what you were looking
for. And
outside of the fact that I no longer wore beads, I looked very much
as I did
that year in San Francisco. I had even adopted the straw cowboy
hat way back
then. I wrapped a paper lei around it for color and Rosy, my girl,
picked up
some sea gull feathers at the beach and stuck them around the brim
in a more or
less random pattern..."bitchin!"
My parents had
pronounced my Haight Ashbury crash pad as a squalid scene out of
some Russian play...I forget which one. I guess they would still
find me in
squalor if they happened to drop in on my tent. So it is decidedly
inferior in
some respects, to the apartment I gave up in San Diego. But if I
don't have
electricity and plumbing, I do have acres of parking space, I can
keep pets,
the air is completely breathable, and the water, though frigid,
is as good as
the bottled Arrowhead Springs I used to buy in the city because
the stuff from
the tap tasted like coyote sweat.
Brenda, ever
sensible, says I should stop griping about the real or imagined
shortcomings of my "ranch" and do something to change
it. With the money I
spend on motels, she avers, I could buy myself a mobile home and
put in a
septic tank. Whats more, all I have to do to accomplish this is
to stop
spending my money at the Branding Iron, the movies and the Woodrose.
In a year
or so, I could save enough to live like a member of the human species,
Southern
California style. I think that would be too drastic a sacrifice.
I'd never
make it through a year without my recreations and I doubt Kiki would
stand for
spartan weekends row upon row, just so I could have an indoor crapper
and an
aluminum roof over my head. Besides, I think she sees the tent as
kind of
romantic. She even suggested I build a teepee and draw my spirit
animal on the
flap for good fortune. I don't know what my spirit animal might
be, and I'm
afraid to ask. She might say my totem is definitely Spiro...as in
mutt.
"Get a
satellite TV dish," Eagle contributed to one discussion. At
the time,
she and Brenda had just added a dish and a 19" Sony to their
house. After
several twelve hour stretches in front of the screen, they agreed
to put the
set away for the duration of the cleaning season. It came to them
that there
was no way the clippers could clean and watch the soaps at the same
time. "I'm
not paying anybody $15 an hour just to watch 'Another World,'"
Brenda
growled. "Ten hours straight of Reggae is just the stuff to
clean by."
"And don't
forget my homemade pizza," Eagle added. "Food and music
is
enough...TV is too much."
But they both
agreed that TV in its' place (after the crop was cleaned) made
home a lot cozier. Brenda wondered briefly if they were sell outs,
but Eagle
reminded her that on Sunday they watched only educational channels.
So I guess
her fears were allayed. But I warned her that if I wandered in some
Sunday to
see her watching Al Pacino foam at the mouth, I would report her
to the local
branch of the 'Jack Kerouac Society' as a lost soul.
I plan to bring
my crop over to clean at Brenda's again. It's a bit difficult
to do in my tent. I did put up a temporary drying shed this year,
made out of
plastic poles and plastic sheeting (where would we be without chemistry?),
and
if it doesn't rain too hard or blow too hard, it'll work just fine.
But these
are big if's.
Someday I'll
have a real drying shed, and room to clean too, just like the big
timers. If the powers that be allow me to keep growing, of course.
"Brenda,
do you suppose we'll be able to keep on growing, with this CAMP
business coming down?"
She pulled her
feet up under her the way she always does when she gets
serious. "Fuck CAMP...it amounts to about as much as a fart
in a whirlwind."
"Reg says
it means the end of the big time growing as we know it." I
persisted.
"Maybe
for this year...and maybe even next. See, it just happens to be
our
turn. Mendocino County may get the heat next year. Southern Oregon
gets raked
back and forth a few times. Hawaii gets it every other year or so."
She leaned
forward, looking earnest. "But growing's too big. If the Law
stamps it out
here, it pops up there. It's like punching a pillow, Larry. You've
just got to
learn to roll with the punches!"
I allowed as
how I wasn't much into being a human pillow, and the thought of
moving hither and yon like the Johnny Appleseed of sinsemilla didn't
appeal to
me either.
"Then hang
tight, Bro. It's the best you can do."
"Are you
and Eagle 'hanging tight'?"
"Bet your
ass!" She sounded positively gleeful. "When we saw this
CAMP shit
coming down, we pulled up all the stuff that showed and we're making
a pretty
good crop with a couple hundred little ones down in the gully. They
won't get
very big, because they don't get enough sun, but they'll do. They'll
do just
fine."
I thought of
my fifty plants growing in full sun in my best patch...that is,
my
only patch. "Why is it you only tell me about these dodges
when it's too late
for me to do anything about it? How come I never heard this 'little
stuff in
the shade' mentioned before?"
Brenda looked
maddeningly innocent. "Three years, and you're still such a
novice. I just assumed you knew about a low grow in the shade. Where've
you
been, Larry? Don't you pick up anything, besides your butt and Kiki's
tabs?"
That's all I
needed, Brenda's superior Funk-know-it-all manner on top of CAMP
worries. I went back to my place with my tail hanging. It looked
bleaker than
ever, but at least my crop was still there. I sat on the ridge top
and stared
at it for a while. I was getting the knack all right. Those plants
were my best
yet. It was my timing that was all wrong. I began to feel very sorry
for
myself. What the hell, somebody had to.
