Community

This is the fifth 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.

When Uncle Sugar released me from the Big Green Machine, in October of 1973, I moved into an apartment in Covina, down in SoCal. In the nine months I lived there, I existed in a vacuum, as far as other tenants in the complex were concerned. I waved and said howdy occasionally, but I never invited anyone to have coffee with me, nor did I ever sit down with a neighbor and quaff a cold one.

Baby Lee and Indiana Slim at the benefit

I mention this because as close to one another as we lived, a wall only separating one apartment from the ones on either side, you would have thought there would be some sort of connection. I guess no one ever came up a cup of sugar short for a recipe, or needed an infusion of half-and-half for morning coffee.

I can’t say for sure if it was just a SoCal thing, or if it was the apartment-complex thing, but it still seems almost macabre to be that removed from those folks who make up your most immediate community. In contrast up here on the mountain, where one’s closest neighbor may quite possibly be a quarter-mile away, the sense of community is infinitely better established.

I think back to the early days when Gluten-Free Mama and I had only been up here a year or so, and we were visited by a good friend from San Jose. Richard came up on his BMW motorcycle and spent a couple of days, marveling at the transition we had made. 

As he got organized, bringing in from outside, the things he would need during his stay, he also brought in the keys to our car. “Hey, you probably didn’t realize you had left these in the ignition, so I brought them in for you.”

I laughed. “Actually, Richard, we leave the keys in the ignition on purpose. What if one of our neighbors needed to borrow it, and there were no keys?” He did not know if I was joking or not. “Seriously?”

“True story. We don’t worry about slicky boys. I know they exist; I know we are vulnerable in such a remote spot, but I can’t be worried about that. If I were, I would not have a back door to the house that does not lock.”

So being as remote as we are, five miles up a dirt road and off the grid, how does this community thing work? How can folks who live so far apart from others, have a better community thing going than neighbors in an apartment complex?

My parents, Pauline and Robert, and Rex.

For starters, by definition, folks who have pulled up stakes and relocated off the grid, are more independent overall than folks who are content to dwell in an apartment complex. Like so many ants or bees, all occupying individual cells, apartment dwellers have no inherent need to extend their social boundaries. They exist within their own individual worlds, and have less incentive to interact with others.

Hill folks, on the other hand, living off the grid in remote areas, have any number of reasons for connecting with neighbors. From carpooling for school, to concerns over wildfires, to shared-road expenses, to gathering for Sunday softball games, the reasons for getting to know your neighbors are numerous.

When word of our land-forfeiture misfortune got out, the response was truly overwhelming. Beginning with a benefit at Michael’s house, the outpouring of support not only came in the form of moral support, it came in the form of monetary donations. 

Bart

Even 33 years later, I can remember how generous our community was in the time of our greatest need. At the benefit Bart handed us a thousand dollars, money he had either donated himself, or rallied other community members to contribute.

We got donations from neighbor Rex, John and Beth, John and Marbry, Will and Kat, Joe and Karen, Bear and Sharon and others I have managed to let slip from my pea brain. These are community members who saw an alarming precedent being set, and they wanted to disrupt the process.

Just think of it as offering a cup of sugar, to someone who needs it in order to bake the cookies.

Finally, there was Michael, who lent me ten large, as casually as he might have tipped the waiter well, for exceptional service. We did not bother with the formality of paperwork. I was able to repay him the following summer, a mutually beneficial arrangement if ever there were one. Michael’s generosity, in letting me to work off the debt, was huge in allowing Gluten-Free Mama and I to regain some sense of normalcy, whatever that is.

If you think this is an isolated example of how community works up here on the mountain, I will tell you it is not. A number of years ago, when a friend I know wanted to pick up a 20-acre-parcel, he went to a long-standing member of our mountain community to seek help.

Slim and Bear

Without asking any questions, and with no paperwork involved, many ducats changed hands, before proceeding on to the bank, to complete the transaction. The figure is inconsequential; how much does twenty acres cost now, if you are paying it off in one lump sum? The point is, this is a level of community that defies comparison. And this is only half of the story.

The other half is that a long-time friend got wind of this whole operation, and had a conniption fit. It seems his feelings were hurt that someone other than himself was asked for the loot.

So perturbed was this dude, that he insisted the money  be returned to the original party (with an agreed-upon service charge), so that he himself, could provide the money for the land. On top of it, he was insistent that there be no discussion of interest. It seems there were other debts being settled here.

If you have never been fortunate enough to have been embraced by a community, then it may be hard to swallow the tale I have spun. On the other hand, if you have, then you know my story goes down like a shot of aged, Irish whiskey: smoothly and with a warmth that can’t be beat.

Tomorrow: That’s a wrap…