CAMPed On

This is the third of a series dealing with the War on Cannabis, of which I am a veteran. I fought the Law back in the mid-eighties and I won a battle, but it was to take more than thirty years before the war finally ended-for me.

For nine months to the day, we existed in a world of hurt, crushed under the weight of the knowledge that unless the lawyer could pull off a miracle, we were going to lose our home and twenty acres of land. 273 days. Gone was the disbelief that the government would never do something so extreme, for something so inconsequential: seize our property for a paltry 33 cannabis plants.

"Reefer Madness" is having your home seized for 33 plants.

We did not consider ourselves criminals for growing cannabis. Outlaws, possibly, but no more so than putting up a cabin, without having gone through proper channels at the county level. Heart don’t stop, Mildred, but we were dwelling in sin, without building permits.

If ever there were a time when we might have felt isolated from the outside world, this would have been it. That being said, it seemed almost automatic that Gluten-Free Mama and I gravitated to Michael’s spot, taking the boys along as though it were a day like any other day.

Michael was more to me than an employer. In the fifteen months or so that I had been working for him, first on the crew that built the addition to his home, and then more on my own, we had grown close. As we first built a deck surrounding the addition, and then sided the new structure with wood shingles, we had had plenty of time to contemplate the universe.

Just mention the word, "purple," and see spirits rise.

Gentlemen farmers, was the term Micheal often used. “We’re gentlemen farmers, Markie,” he used to quip. “We work hard and we know how to live life.” I agreed with him completely, even with those pesky 40 hours, more or less, that I put in each week also being a gentleman carpenter. 

We sat around in the shade out on the deck, and hashed the matter over.

“The whole thing seems so surreal to me,” I said, “but then, I wasn’t there to experience the joy of the helicopter.”

“It was just so loud,” responded GF Mama. “BenJamIn was scared and I was trying to get over to Pauline’s, and the burrs were so bad. I’m just going to throw the socks I was wearing away.”

I couldn’t even imagine how terrified she must have been, and how hard going overland was, carrying a fifteen-month-old, and being five months along. It was to be a long time before poor BenJamIn could hear the sound of a helicopter, without having a twonky attack, as we used to refer to wig-outs. And there was little we could we do, except give him hugs and reassurance and feel bad for him. Oh, and more than a little guilty.

I admit it; I was in shock, still. “What’s next, Michael? I mean, I know we need a lawyer, and all that, but then, what’s next? What are we supposed to do?”

“There isn’t anything to be done, Markie. The fact that you weren’t there, works in your favor because they’re sure not coming back to your house. Too many busts to do that kind of followup. They’ll let you know soon enough what they want, believe me. All we can do is wait.”

“I can’t believe they’re trying to take our house. Hey, charge me with cultivation, let me do my time, and let’s move on. But seizing my land? Is nothing sacred?” 

It was a rhetorical question and it hung in the air the way the sound of the distant helicopter, still working Cow Mountain, where so many of our friends had their homes and gardens.

“And where am I going to get the loot to pay for a lawyer?” This was also intended to be a question without an expected response, but to my surprise, Micheal jumped all over it.

“Don’t be surprised, Markie, if the members of this community want to chip in and help you out. After all, we all run the same risk. If we stand by and say and do nothing, we may find ourselves in your shoes-tomorrow.”

Michael was every bit the gentleman farmer to me; he made it abundantly clear that same day, that he would back me financially every cent of the way. We could work out the minor details later, but the cash would be forthcoming directly. All we had to do was let him know how much.

“What I hope is that this whole thing doesn’t end up in The Ledger,” I remarked, alluding to the local paper run by John Weed, the precursor to the local rag out of Laytonville. All I need right now is to have the whole world know I’ve been CAMPed on.”

The reference was to the [infamous] task force, California Against Marijuana Planting, a unit consisting of numerous agencies working together to eliminate cannabis. Imagine how much of a dent in the homeless population, these agencies could have made, had they chosen a different focus for their energy.

Unfortunately, it being Monday, there was still time to insert the item-on the front page-for Wednesday’s edition of The Ledger. I took no solace in the fact that the article spelled my name with only one “L,” in O’Neill.

The Ledger told of CAMP’s role in my bust. Just the mention of that acronym was enough to make the hairs bristle on my neck. CAMP was more than just the sheriff. We were treated to incidents such as the one which took place at Davy’s spot, early one morning, when he and I were sitting at his kitchen table, sipping mugs of steaming coffee. The air suddenly began to first vibrate, and then positively churn. A noise louder than thunder, almost overcame as us we stared open-mouthed out the window. 

The land behind the house, maybe thirty or forty feet back, dropped away sharply. Now, rising out of this canyon, an alien presence of unimaginable proportions, was a helicopter. In its ascent, it paused as it got level with the house, and we stared into the eyes of the pilot who was operating this insidious threshing machine.

The pilot leered at us-at the horror in our faces and our transfixed state-and then he smiled, broadly. He seemed to be enjoying himself immensely, at our expense. Meanwhile, the coffee in our cups was in danger of vibrating out of their respective containers, the air rattled around so hard.

There is much palaver about domestic terrorists these days, what with the Republican Party still in power, but back in the day, we had our own brand. They were paid ten dollars an hour to traipse around the countryside and eradicate cannabis, and they derived much pleasure from their work.

Like Radar O’Reilly, we were honed into the sound of choppers in the distance. 

As we tried to get a handle on the day’s events, sitting on the deck at Michael’s, immortal words were uttered: “We’ll all laugh about this in ten years, you know.”

It’s been 33 years now. When does the laughing begin?

Tomorrow: Escaping the net