The Fumble

If you want the short story of my experiences at Reggae on the River, 2015, it goes like this: I planned; I attended; I enjoyed. There, all done.  However, it is my custom to use my blog to not only recount experiences, but to extract from them some sort of sage assessment. 

Each episode will consist of a vignette written to stand by itself, but which will also link with all of the others to attempt to imbue the reader with a basic understanding of what the attraction is to gathering with thousands of others along the Eel River every August, when it is most likely to be hot.

# 3: The Fumble

Upon our return to French’s Camp, with the humongous Wolf cookstove from the Mateel Center, there was much celebration for a job well done. With the help of a couple of dudes already at the center, four of us had been able to muscle the colossal stove up onto the trailer and back to the venue, where it would be used to prepare meals for the artists who were to be performing at 2015‘s version of Reggae on the River.

The hazardous nature of the task, what with the stove weighing in at over 500 pounds, plus the stop at the diner for an unanticipated and unwelcome meal, had me feeling more and more off my game. In attempting to acclimate myself to the venue before the throngs arrived, a nagging question kept thrusting it ugly head out of the foggy depths of my cottage cheese brain:

Why was I doing this again? Annie has told me for the past 25 years that I would hate it, there were too many people, it was too hot, and she wanted nothing to do with it.  

Uh, don’t threaten me with a good time. 

However, that was before I had met and become an ardent admirer of my new best friend, Pandora, who has introduced me to the Stephen Marley station. I am addicted. There is no other artist who could have motivated me do even attempt this, other than Stephen.

Good Buddha. What a circus. It’s a good thing we have our own strongmen, Lito and Mid-Sized David, who had unquestionably been the two main reasons why we were able to accomplish the chore. And oh, my stomach. Why didn’t I just nibble and say I wasn’t hungry? Hmmm. Self-fulfilling prophecy? Digging my own grave? Shooting myself in the foot? Take your pick. I can hang in until tonight, and then I’m going to hitch a ride out of this zoo with Lito. He’ll take pity on an old fart, for sure.

Casey came from out of nowhere, asking as he came up to me, “How are you doing, Pops? Are you keeping hydrated?”

“On it, Brother Man,” showing him my water canteen, which I had carried everywhere, refilling it repeatedly at the pickle barrel-turned-ice-water-dispenser, that was kept habitually stocked with the precious fluid of life, the entire time that folks were on the festival site.

“Great success. So listen, I didn’t mean that you should be one of the crew who went after that beast. How did that go?” He listened as I gave him the brief outline and went on to tell me that I should not feel I had to do stuff that was meant for the younger set. 

Yeah, well, we’ve had this conversation before, young Grasshopper.

“You have to conserve your energy for the Show,” had been the explicit message.

Casey and I had talked most recently only a day or so before, when he had taken me aside and let me know that he-and all the crew-would provide absolutely all the support for me that could possibly be imagined. On the other hand, I was not to feel pressure to attend the festival, and the way he communicated this information left me convinced that he was being straight with me.

I knew that his message was heartfelt and he had assured me that I was free to simply tag along with him on his travels, if that was what was most comfortable for me.

“It’s so hard to get things started because there is so much drama. I was trying to get a radio, so that Nate and I can communicate over the weekend and it’s not happening right now. Sorry you got stuck on that job.”

“All good in the ‘hood,” I said, suddenly having misgivings about my plan to bail out that same night, and return to the mountain with Lito. That old Catholic guilt.  Of course, Lito wasn’t intending to return to the mountain, but would do so if I asked. 

That’s just the kind of guy he is.

Argggggghhhhh. Just when I make up my mind, along comes something to shake it loose again. Well, no challenge there. I have gone back and forth on this so frequently, I feel like a dog who can’t make up his mind whether to be out on the deck, or in the kitchen. In and out. In and out. Stay or not stay. Stay or not stay...

We were kept busy until well after dark, finally wrapping up the last of the cleanup of the storage closets, the maneuvering and repositioning of the entire contents of the outdoor kitchen, and the hookup of the electricity and gas, around nine-thirty.

Nate was holding court beneath the newly erected carport that helped form the huge canopy, beneath which attendees of the festival would be able to enjoy their meals and down-time out of the sun. Nate was the kitchen setup site leader, a man known by most simply as Bull.

I took Bull at face value for those first two days, a big guy with a raspy voice, who obviously relished his role in the process, but who had about three good men’s work he was trying to accomplish. The net result was that he appeared fragmented at times, stymied by either local politics or his own ambition. Hard to say which.

Annie told me that she liked this guy and his wife. From what I can tell, so far, I don’t think he knows if he’s coming or going, but he’s sure breathing hard.

I felt neither affection nor dislike for this blustery guy, but my opinion had been slightly skewed the wrong way earlier, when Bull had failed to deliver  on what could have turned out to be a deal-breaker. We had been standing in line for lunch when he came by, and he gestured that we should follow him.

“No standing in line for my crew,” he said. “Take a seat and I’ll be right back.”

Awesome possum. Anytime I can get service, I’ll take it. Not that I am hungry, but Annie warned me how important it is for me to eat. Otherwise, I’ll keel over like I did on the ferry coming back from AT&T Park that time. 

On the other hand, I will not be ingesting a slate of anxiety-reducing chemicals, including cannabis cookies, alcohol, Lorazapam and Vicodin, as has been known to be my remedy for ensuring I am so anesthetized that I can handle the stress of being in the stadium, amongst ALL those fans. Now all I need is cannabis plus the sessions of Cognitive Behavioral Therapy already notched in my little pea brain.

We traipsed down the bank in the shade behind the kitchen, alongside the trailer-truck refrigerator unit, able to feel the frosty air furiously trying to stay confined in its own refuge, but spilling out anyway into the 106 degree weather, any time Dan the cook had to get something out. 

I never minded the heat, having come equipped with a small ice chest and a bag of ice, fortuitously obtained when Casey and I filled the truck with gas, prior to arriving. Interestingly enough, in grabbing a snack, as decadent as it was, we had each elected some vinegar tater chips, and water. Always water. 

I kept ice cubes in my hat at all times. It accomplished two things: the ice kept me cool, and the fact that the melted water dripped down my face, made it seem as though I were working fiendishly hard. A twofer if ever there was one.

It was here that we had the most profoundly Alice-in-Wonderland conversation with a tourist passing through. Having seen the venue from the highway, he asked if we were attending. We had all of our camping gear, we were animated and we were buying junk food. Here’s your sign.

When informed what it was all about, and finding out that it was reggae music being featured, he waxed on enthusiastically on how much he enjoyed the genre.

“Is Bob Marley gonna be playing,” he asked brightly?

Without skipping a beat, Casey responded, “Only in spirit, but one of his sons, and several grandsons will be there.”

Did he just ask if Bob Marley was going to be playing? [Bob Marley died 34 years ago, in 1981, at the age of 36.]

Now as we waited for Bull to bring us lunch, he didn’t. After an hour, of lounging around doing nothing, not wanting to go back to camp in case the lunch showed up, Bull hustled past, taking no notice of us. Casey raced after him.

Less than five minutes later, lunch in the form of tasty burritos and a salad, was delivered. Better late than never, I suppose, but I was grateful that I was not really hungry or else I would have been annoyed. Actually, throughout the entire gig, I never once allowed myself to get too hungry.

Now, the moment was approaching, we were gathered together, Lito and Conner were poised to spring, and I was formulating the best way to present my case.

Think, old brain, just one more time. Should I just bail without a word? Should I try to explain? “The ship is taking on water, lads, and I need to get back to [Annie] dry-dock.”

I can’t do this...I don’t want to do this...I want out of here.

And just like that, I was watching Lito and Conner making like the wind, and blowing out of there, already thirty feet away, and Casey was saying, “Come on Pops, Let’s find the bathrooms so that you will be able to find them yourself tonight, in case you wake up in the middle of the night.

In case? I wake up a half-dozen times a night to use the facilities. The only reason I would not is if I were dead. But he’s right. This is a crucial mission.

“Great success!” was all I said.

Tomorrow: The Transmogrification

The Wolf

If you want the short story of my experiences at Reggae on the River, 2015, it goes like this: I planned; I attended; I enjoyed. There, all done.  However, it is my custom to use my blog to not only recount experiences, but to extract from them some sort of sage assessment. 

Each episode will consist of a vignette written to stand by itself, but which will also link with all of the others to attempt to imbue the reader with a basic understanding of what the attraction is to gathering with thousands of others along the Eel River every August, when it is most likely to be hot.

#2: The Wolf

This being my first Reggae on the River, I was on site two days before the festival was due to kick off, ostensibly for the purpose of putting in enough volunteer time to earn a pass to the entire festival. Being there early was a key component in my plan, because the two days would allow me to acclimate myself to the venue, so that I would not have to do so, with 10,000 of my closest friends hovering. I figured if I knew where I was at all times, then the crowd would not be a factor.

The real reason for the early arrival was to set up the two kitchens which would be supplying quality food for the three thousand volunteers, plus the performers. It was a massive undertaking, one that folks have been trying to perfect for thirty-one years now, and for the most part, it’s based on volunteer help. Therein lies the potential rub, in that there is much postulating for control. 

This person has been organizing the kitchen since ’97; that individual has high status for his connections with performers; and that dude over there has been a part of ROTR since is was still “Electric on the Eel.” And they are all bound and determined to get “their people” whatever it is that is needed.

At the moment in question, though Casey was nowhere to be seen, and Lito, Conner, Mid-Sized-David and I were delegated to go to the Mateel Center to get the Wolf. David is anything but mid-sized, sauntering in at around six-six, and weighing whatever it is that a burly, rugby-playing, six-foot-six dude weighs, but he was dubbed mid-sized by Minnix, on site from Hawaii, and thus it stood.

I am so glad I do not have to think; all I have to do is follow directions. Set up another carport? Easy-peasy. Cart the chairs and tables for the Ambassador Lounge from point A to point B? We’re on it. Move the Wolf? Uh, let me get back to you no that one...

Four of us headed up to the Mateel Center in Redway, with David towing the utility trailer behind him in his pickup. Lito filled me in on the way there, explaining that our mission, since we had chosen to accept it, was to load up the mammoth cast iron cook stove from the kitchen at the center, and bring it back for use on the site.

He said that they had done it last year and that it was tough, but that we were hoping to get some help on the other end from any dudes hanging out at the Mateel. In either case we would have to find a way to get ‘er done.

Unfortunately, when I came face-to-face with the enemy, a behemoth that tipped the scales at a minimum of 500 pounds, I took a second think. Then a third, a fourth...you get the idea. 

Whoever it is that expects us to move this beast, is either delusional, high on the stuff, or unclear on the concept. Take your pick.  This stove looks more like a Sherman tank.  I am functioning, more or less-and more less than more-with only one arm these days, because my dang right shoulder keeps popping out of its socket, or labrum as I have long since come to know it. I am about as helpful as a fish is, in a three-legged race.

Luckily, there were two dudes on hand who were willing to lend us their backs. The five-and-a-half of us manhandled the aircraft carrier onto two coasters we had brought with us, and rolled it carefully out onto the landing platform. We went slowly so as not to accidentally bump a wall, thereby demolishing it.

Because of the position of the curb and the ramp, there was a sizable gap, over which we had to convey the stove. There was no way to maneuver the truck closer to the stove, because to do so was to elevate the rear end higher than it already was, which would necessitate lifting the ship’s anchor even more. We needed something more than what was on hand.

The lads sifted through the detritus alongside one of the buildings, seeking various methods to get the stove from the curb to the trailer. There was a thick piece of plywood that they were contemplating using, but I firmly steered them away, noting that mid-sized-David, who probably weighed at least half of the stove, had bent the plywood to a precipitously hazardous angle.

All I could envision was getting that stove halfway up the ramp, and having the plywood snap, sending the stove over sideways, crushing any unfortunate individuals not quick enough to dodge a speeding stove. 

I wasn’t feeling too nimble right about then. 

Have they lost what little of their minds they have left? The plywood buckles with David on it; how will it ever hold up to the stove? This is ridiculous because there is only one way that six dudes are going to get this bad-boy up on the trailer. 

“Look, we don’t need a ramp. All we have to do is roll the stove up to the bed of the trailer, lift the front end up and slide it onto the bed of the trailer, and then lift the back end and wrestle the whole shebang towards the front of the trailer to better balance it for the ride back to French’s Camp.”

An hour of scratching our heads and two minutes of exertion, and then the lads were ready to chow down. We ended up at Deb’s Diner, where I perused the menu and settled on what I thought was the lightest meal on the menu, a turkey and swiss sandwich on sourdough bread. 

Whereas a gut-bomb was most appealing after having had nothing to eat since the breakfast of potato patties and poached eggs early this morning, I resisted the impulse to order a cheeseburger, or anything fried. I did not want to overload my system before even knowing the layout of the camp; I am not an adventurous fellow.

Unfortunately, what I got was a grilled ham and cheese with a small mountain of French fries. 

WTF? Nice choice: Either I eat what I decidedly did not order, or I assert myself and have them correct it, thereby possibly holing up the progress of the group. To put something as foreign as this into my body, makes me fear the worst. Well, it’s nice to have a choice.

And that choice includes deciding whether I am up to camping at French’s Camp over the weekend to hear the music, or not. Lito goes home tonight and I know he would take pity on his old, confused and doddering dad, and give me a lift home.

“Pass the mustard, please. Who ever heard of eating a grilled ham and cheese without mustard?”

Next: “The Fumble”

Rasta Road

If you want the short story of my experiences at Reggae on the River, 2015, it goes like this: I planned; I attended; I enjoyed. There, all done.  However, it is my custom to use my blog to not only recount experiences, but to extract from them some sort of sage assessment. 

Each episode will consist of a vignette written to stand by itself, but which will also link with all of the others. I will attempt to imbue the reader with a basic understanding of what the attraction is to gathering with thousands of others along the Eel River every August, when it is most likely to be hot.

Rasta Road

Now, of course, you may not consider 106 degrees to be hot, in which case the first day [for me] of setup was just another day in paradise.  Having spent ten hours outside on the previous day tending to my garden, I did not need the computer forecast to break the news about the heat. I just needed to put ice in my hat, and ice at the top of my list of items for my survival kit.

Hot? This ain’t hot. Heat is SoCal, in October. When Bro Tom popped out into the world in 1958, on October 3rd, it was 114 degrees in the San Gabriel Valley. Nice and warm.

You see, Tuesday and Wednesday were trial days, and if things went well, I would then follow through on my plan of attending my first “Reggae on the River” festival, along the Eel River in Southern Humboldt County, beginning Friday and going through Sunday. 

There was only one artist on the planet able to coax me out of my shell, and into the real world, and that is Stephen Marley, the second son of the late, the great Bob Marley. Stephen is a genius and he rocks my soul. It really isn’t any more complicated than that.

I have found that working while listening to reggae music is a great combination, because the upbeat, lilting nature of the music lends lift to my feet, and I find myself dancing through life, on legs that have become rejuvenated.

Work? As long as I have my headphones plugged in, I am not working, merely listening to my music. If I happen to also be trellising out in the garden, that is purely coincidental.

So why has it taken me thirty-one years to decide to attend the iconic festival? I do not function well in crowds, as is evidenced by my inability to enjoy my favorite pastime on earth, watching San Francisco Giants baseball at AT&T Park. I mean, I have the mental tools to be able to accomplish the feat but I do not enjoy myself.

What is the point of assembling all of my tools and maintaining a high degree of preparedness, to attend a game, only to find that the experience brings no pleasure? Why would I not just stay in the comfort of my living room, and tune in CSNBA, to hear Kruk and Kuip while monitoring the contest on Gameday?

The same has always applied to music. I invested a small fortune in some Beats Headphones, prior to embarking for Ireland in 2011, so I have concert-quality music available at all times. The bottom line is that like watching Kruk and Kuip on the tube, listening to Stephen Marley is a lot more enjoyable under  optimum conditions on my headphones, than joining 9,999 others at a festival.

And if ROTR were only about music, I would be on solid ground. But it’s not-it’s about love, family and community, in any order that you want to place them. There is no simple explanation, so I am going to try complex.

Rasta Road, huh? Wall-to-wall tents, reminding me more of a refugee camp than anything else. I mean, I know it’s how it works, but being in the center of all that humanity, for three days? It’s never going to happen. 

There were two large, open-air kitchens to be set up, one for volunteers, and the Ambassador Lounge, the chill spot for the cool people. Our first task was to move two soda/juice machines, mammoth upright refrigerators which would dispense much appreciated beverages to thirsty revelers, from one location to the other.

The challenging logistics notwithstanding, we accomplished the task, and positioned the ice-boxes as directed. Unfortunately, they had to be flip-flopped, a less-than-enthusiastic crew grumbling that it might have been nice to have had the right location pointed out in the first place.

One hand has no clue what the other hand wants, except that both hands are struggling for dominance. These guys running the show are clueless, each one waiting for the next one to definitively set the stage.

“Hey guys? I hate to say this but we had the soda machines positioned correctly the first time. So can we move them back?” 

We? You got a mouse in your pocket? Oh, you mean us. What a crock. Hey, I’ll put my two days in, like I said I would, but there is no way I am going to come back on Friday. This is just not my scene.

Casey kept things from spiraling out of control through his judicious provision of the vitals: a bong and a jar of high-grade, home-grown goodness. We were thus employed, following the debacle of the musical refrigerators, when head-cook Eric came over, and asked if we were ready to go after the wolf. 

All eyes shifted to six-foot-six David, and seeing that he was right there, all eyes said, “Aye.”

Oh boy. What’s this all about? We get to drive to Redway and get a wolf?

Tomorrow: “The Wolf”

Red, Red Wine

I told the first part of the story in “Smile for the Camera, Mark,” of how we got booted out of a motel in Eureka because I had the unmitigated gall to smoke cannabis around the block behind the windowless motel, back in an alley where all evil-doers do their nasty deeds. (http://markyswrite.blogspot.com/2015/07/smile-for-camera-mark-well-it-happened.html)

Red, Red Wine

“I don’t get it. What did we do wrong? Why did Dave tell us we have to leave?” I asked the question of Annie who looked stricken. For a woman who has been through a lot in the past couple of years with rock solid equanimity, she seemed to be unduly struggling. On the other hand, we had never been thrown out of a motel, either.

“They said they smelled cannabis when they came into the room.” Annie shrugged her shoulders.

“Well, if they smelled anything, it was the Altoids tin with my four joints in it. Besides, why were they in our room? I specifically told housekeeping that we were good.”

“I don’t know. But Dave is furious.” Dave was the manager of the motel.

“And we have to leave? Well, that suits me fine; I don’t want to stay here anyway.”

“Well, no, he said we could stay tonight since we have already paid for it, but I don’t know...” Her voice trailed off.

“Well, I do. I know I am so out of here, I can’t believe I am still standing here talking about it. What do you say?”

I guess being together going on thirty-five years makes us pretty well-tuned into each other’s thought-process.

That put some life back into her face and it took us less than ten minutes to complete our packing. I know it was fast because in our haste to get it together, Annie placed the mostly-full bottle of wine that we had opened the previous night after dinner, into a brown paper bag with the cork not completely inserted into the neck of the bottle.

Red wine.  

You see, the wine came with one of those hard plastic corks and Annie had been unable to get it put back in. That’s man's work because it requires a set of hands that still function normally. Annie’s hands have betrayed her in recent times, due to the effects of her illness. I should have checked it but in my haste to get out of there, I just went for all the marbles.

Of course, when it spilled all over the bed comforter, it wasn’t really that bad because the comforter was also wine-colored. And if you believe that, I have a bridge you may be interested in purchasing. 

I had come back into the room after taking a first load of luggage out to the truck and gathered up another armload, including the brown paper bag with the wine in it. In reaching over the bed to snag another item, the bottle of wine became parallel with the bed, and the pressure of its contents propelled that cork out and most of the wine with it. 

I knew something was wrong. 

Liquid was spewing out everywhere. 

Huh. Maybe I better pause...

Poor Annie simply melted down, right there in front of me, silently, as though she had just lost her bulldog. 

“Wine doesn’t come out,” she moaned.

She was speaking English but I needed a translation.

“Are you ready?”

“We can’t just leave.”

“Of course we can. Just watch.”

Annie stared at me balefully. 

She won. 

I said to her, “I would rather you didn’t go back in and talk to Dave. I just want to leave.”

What I did not tell her was that in that hectic ten minutes that we spent packing, I had not only taken some luggage to the truck, I had also “popped” into the office to ask the proprietor one question.

Dave’s white mane snapped up as I opened the office door, with its noisy ensemble of jingling bells and whistles. Thoughts of whiplash drifted innocently through my thoughts.

Just as quickly, his face plummeted downward, intently studying the latest edition of "Medieval Motels." Literally. I thought he was going to end up with his forehead on the counter.

“I have just one question for you, Dave.” I had spoken quietly, but had paused just for an instant, before I said “Dave.”

“Why did you enter the room in our absence when I specifically asked that you not?”

His eyes remained fastened on the 'zine in front of him as he mumbled, “I’m not sure.”

Whatever he was expecting, and I imagined he had seen much as a motel operator in Eureka, he was not expecting calm and he was not expecting to have to answer questions.

Just as quickly, his bravado surfaced. “Did you put the “Do Not Disturb” sign on the door?” Damn. Got me on a technicality.

“No. Instead I spoked directly to housekeeping, face to face, and requested that she not expend the energy to either wash our towels nor clean the room and she agreed.”

“I smelled marijuana in your room.” Finally. 

“I never smoked in the room. As you well know from your camera, I went back in the alley.”

“I can’t have marijuana in my motel.” Of course not. Drugs. I get it.

“That’s fine. We won’t be back.”

The entire conversation took less than a minute and was quite civil.

What I couldn’t do, was explain about Annie’s cancer and my bipolarism. Though Annie cannot tolerate the THC component, she relies on the CBD plants to help her combat her kidney cancer and her thyroid cancer. Before cannabis entered the picture, she was losing the battle. Now she is at least presenting an offense and we are holding our breath.

I, on the other hand, do require the THC. I don’t think of it as getting high, because I stopped getting high ages ago. I simply maintain a certain level of THC content in my body, and I am good to go.

I tried edibles three summers ago and they were tasty. I made my own gluten-free oatmeal cookies and they were awesome. Far too awesome because there was no way to determine the THC level. Studies indicated that I could be getting as much as ten times the normal dose because the oil I made from the flowers of the plants, was quite potent.

Coincidentally, or maybe related in some way, I was also exhibiting the classic symptoms of a mood spectrum disorder, and the cookies magnified my illness. Now I stick to the bong unless I am traveling.

Though I feel getting asked to leave a motel for smoking cannabis is kind of funny, in a comical sort of way, the reality is, it’s a sick joke. Not one patron of the motel was aware of my actions because I was respectful enough to leave the facility’s premises and walk around the block, but that didn’t matter. The security camera in the alley was all that mattered.

Now, as we faced off over the spilt wine, Annie and I came to an impasse. She could not leave without revealing what had occurred, and I could not leave without her. She walked out of the room.

She found the perfect vehicle when she came face-to-face with the same housekeeping woman who had been a part of the whole affair from the beginning. This poor gal had been present when Dave had reamed Annie in the lobby in front of the motorcyclists.

Seconds later Annie was back and we were in the truck and heading out. The woman had assured Annie that it was no big deal and that she would take care of it. It would not cost anything. I had suspected that at some point in time, it was quite possible that someone else had done the same thing-spilled wine on the “wine-colored” comforter...

Luckily, there are other establishments in Eureka and if nothing else, I have learned a valuable lesson. As much as my own sheltered existence in my home community allows me certain freedoms, those same freedoms do not extend to the real world.

You would have thought I had figured that out by now, but then again, the time is coming. 

Besides, I feel reasonably confident that Dave is fighting a losing battle protecting his patrons against the evil weed of Reefer Madness notoriety.

Is not Eureka in Humboldt County?

Smile for the Camera, Mark

Smile for the Camera, Mark

Well, it happened again. I got in trouble for smoking cannabis. Sigh. Considering I am 62 years old, and have been indulging since 1969, you would think I might have figured out a thing or two. It just goes to show the law of averages is bound to catch up at some point in time.

This time it got poor Annie [and me] tossed out of a motel in Eureka.

Good Buddha. I have been in motels countless times (including the occasion under discussion) when folks in the same establishment committed acts far more egregious, than going around the back of the building and taking a few rips off of a fatty.

I had already been sleeping for quite some time the first [and only, as it turned out] night we were there, when two events occurred more or less simultaneously. Annie says a woman who had been out in front of our room smoking a cigarette, got loud and obnoxious. Imagine that.

Right on top of that, came some sort of car alarm issue, this one more than ample enough to jar me out of my sleep. That was 11:15 and after tossing and turning until three AM or so, I gave up, got up, and did a piece of writing. Did that person, who must have awakened every patron of the motel, get the boot?

We had come up to make a run to Klamath, to do a little shopping, and to stroll around Old Town and check out the junk shops. We usually stay in the same spot, primarily because of the proximity of the best breakfast joint in town, The Chalet, and it is convenient. It does not have CSNBA, so I cannot get the Giants games on TV, but I have managed to cope. Besides, the Giants only play six-er, uh, seven-months of the season.

Now, it’s no secret that I was diagnosed in 2012 as having a mood spectrum disorder, what old-schoolers would call being bipolar. Having tried what corporate ‘Merica has to offer in the way of medication, and having been repulsed by the side effects, I have found that cannabis allows me to function “normally,” whatever that means, and so every few hours I must take my “meds.”

I would never have considered indulging within the room, simply because it was expressly forbidden and comes with a $200 fine, so I would walk down the sidewalk, and around the back of the half-block long edifice, and down an alley. This thruway intersects two windowless buildings, so that there is no one (except the security camera) to view my actions.

Which is evidently what happened, because as we came back from breakfast Friday morning, and I strolled out back to take care of business, Dave the proprietor was awaiting my return on the corner closest to the re-entry sidewalk to my room.

I greeted him with my usual, “The top of the morning to you,” but he gave no indication he had heard me. I guess maybe the top of the morning was a bit of a stretch for Dave that particular Friday morning. He was about to bring our day down as well. 

As we prepared to go out walking, a knock came on the door and a voice identifying herself as housekeeping, asked if we needed anything. I opened the door and told her we were good to go, and that she need not clean our room. 

Annie and I traipsed off to do our walk along the beautiful Hikshari trail but when we returned, imagine our surprise to find that our keys no longer opened the door to our room. Annie made a quick jog over to the office, but was gone far longer than what it might have seemed the amount of time required to take care of a simple logistical function.

There were three touring motorcycles, which had just pulled up and were disbursing the riders outside the office, so there was some noise and confusion; I attributed the delay to the cyclists. I had my nose in a book and was clueless. Odd, I know.

Then Annie was back and she was trying to convey information, but she was struggling. We managed to make our way back into the room, where she informed me that we had been told we had to leave the motel because of my transgressions.

We had been given the boot.

Oh, the ignominy of it all.

To be continued...

Board Game with No Rules

Board Game with No Rules

“I saw your son on TV-he looked real good.” The words were posted on my Face/Book wall when I got up this morning at 2:35. I knew that Casey had gone down to Ukiah, Friday afternoon, for the Mendocino County Sheriff’s press conference over the Island Mountain cannabis raids, so I gathered that he had found an outlet for his message.

Wearing his “I am a farmer” tee shirt, he had set out to express his outrage at the terrorist tactics currently being employed by the state and county law enforcement personnel. Though photos indicate rampant disrespect to the environment and the number of plants is significant, the presence of armored vehicles and a para-military approach is absolutely unnecessary when confronting farmers.

Casey has gone on record as saying, “There is much work to do to build a pathway forward. Using law enforcement to try and regulate industry is like banging nails with a saw. We’re all frustrated; we need sensible regulations from the state of California.”

Casey and countless others have been diligently laboring to seek said regulation on both the state and local levels. He has been stampeding to all sectors of NorCal with the message that cannabis farmers need to gather round and gear up for the upcoming battle with Corporate America, for the right to continue to grow [medicinal] cannabis.

HappyDay Farms has a personal agenda that accompanies the public one and that is Annie’s health issues. Battling both kidney cancer and thyroid cancer, she has found that juicing cannabis has had significant positive impact, and she is has been buoyed by the thought that she can rely on the farm to provide her with this medicine.

Annie has no tolerance for THC and the juicing bypasses this component. I have no such compunctions. I tried Corporate ‘Merica’s solution for bipolarism, and it was ugly. I find that cannabis drags me out of the depressive abysses, and pulls me back down to earth when the mania sends me aloft.

I have reasonably good control over my illness because I am an extraordinarily apt pupil, and I was paying attention when I attended the thirty or so cognitive behavioral therapy (CBT) sessions, but I do need the cannabis to help stabilize my mood spectrum disorder.

That the two of us should have to live in fear that our medicine will be confiscated, especially since the farm has been so politically active in the fight for legitimacy, is reprehensible. In fact it has accomplished for Annie what nothing else has been able to do: It has made her angry.

She has taken the stance that when the forces of oppression become too overwhelming, and our way of life is threatened, that civil disobedience becomes the most logical course of action. Anyone who knows Annie, knows this is pretty extreme.

When I asked her what this might look like, she talks of chaining herself to the big chipper which accompanies the task force. She has all of her paperwork laminated and clearly displayed on the front gate, which is locked for the first time in thirty-three years because she wants any law enforcement personnel to have to “break in” to our compound. 

My sweetest of apple blossoms has her proverbial panties in a bunch.

The only way to compete with Big Ag is to establish the validity of connoisseur cannabis, so that just as the wine industry has been able to establish its legitimacy, so should the cannabis farmers be able to assume their rightful place at the head of the line.

In order to do so, regulation must occur. As Casey wrote, “I see a hopeless and frustrating standoff between farmers and law enforcement because we are playing a board game with no rules. Only it’s not a game. It’s people’s lives, it’s the fish in the stream, and it’s the future of our economies. One for all and all for one; together our world will stand, divided our world will fall.”

Annie and I taught our sons to question authority but to do so with respect. We are proud of Casey, Nathaniel and all who fight the tyranny of injustice, and do so for the betterment of all. 

We call that being community contributors.

https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=847362141985988&set=a.716630905059113.1073741826.100001366293326&type=1&theater 

Jurassic Lawn-The Conclusion

Jurassic Lawn-The Conclusion

If you have read the first two segments of this tawdry narrative, you know that I, obviously enveloped in a pipe dream, had knowingly planted and nurtured four lawns. Two of them were the size of king-sized mattresses, and two of them somewhat larger, but as is most often the case, size is not important. 

I get it. What I saw as “WestSide Lawn,” HappyDay Farm Management saw as “Clockwork Lawn.” What confused me for the longest time was the fact that everywhere I walked on the farm, in every one of the different venues where vegetables and cannabis are grown, so are flowers. There are dozens of varieties, resplendent in all of their glory, both indigenous and planted. Many are harvested and formed into stunning bouquets each week, but most are not.

From the hundreds of volunteer sunflowers to the plethora of other ornamentals, all of which are watered through the emitter systems in place on the farm, I saw beauty around me. I admit that I struggled with differentiating between water used to grow thousands of different flowers, over two or more acres of tilled farmland, and a lawn that would have measured twenty feet by twenty-three, if the four little dudes were assimilated into one.

If there were a drought in effect that impacted the farm to the extent that I could not grow my lawns, then why were there thousands of flowers everywhere, soaking in water, when they could be pulled so that there was more of the precious nectar for that which was more important?

When the proverbial stuff hit the fan, and I staggered away from the unscheduled confab with HappyDay Farm Management, after the smoke had finally cleared, what I learned was this: Lawns were a cultural symbol of sorts to many, representing a societal level of affluence that was looked down upon by the powers that be, none of whom was me. 

Oh.

Lawns were verboten. "Frankenlawn?" Other than the obvious-to-everyone-but-me, it was also explained that in the past I had not responded well to being told what to do, and therefore, no one had wanted to tell me what to do-or what not to do. That included lawns.

Oh.

What I wanted to know was why it never occurred to anyone to ask me, rather than telling me. I will candidly admit that I do not like being told what to do. 

Pregnant pause. 

OK, it’s more than that; I won’t do what I am told. There, that was easy. But I will kill myself to please the powers that be, if I am asked. I don’t quite get it myself, but I do know the older I get, the less I am inclined to follow directives. Ask me anything and I’ll tolerate huge doses of physical pain to attain it, but tell me I have to do something, and watch bodies crash through the windshield as I hit the brakes. Weird.

So it wasn’t the messenger(s), it wasn’t the message itself, it was the method of delivery that caused me to sever connections that will take time to repair. They will mend because that’s the way it works in families, and hopefully some measure of learning has taken place so that we can continue to build on the knowledge that has been gained.

Meanwhile, out of chaos has come order. As life continues to weave its intricate tapestry, different events mesh and become as one. With Annie being forced to give up her spot in Willits because we simply can no longer afford the luxury, I was determined to create a space here on the mountain that best replicated her tiny backyard down in Willits.

With a little bit of help from me in the beginning, she had fashioned a colorful-though limited-flower display in her little yard. After nurturing it for more than two years, she had had to give it up. Now I wanted to recreate that spot so that Annie would feel more kinship right here at home.

After having turned the soil over in the three newest lawn additions, burying the grass forever, I proceeded to turn my attention to that original lawn, grown upon soil brought by me via wheelbarrow, back in 1992.

I dug up the grass/turf and piled it in the center of the area and formed wooden boxes around it, using materials scrounged from the back yard. I used ancient split rails, two-by-six redwood that had been formerly employed as veggie boxes, and four-by-four posts that were originally fence posts for the original stockade. 

I have converted all of the outside homestead to emitters to minimize water usage, and am continuing to develop the area so that Annie has a place to sit and enjoy a glass of zin in the late afternoon, if she is of a mind.

I am deriving much more enjoyment from the creation and planting of the herbs and ornamentals, than I ever derived from the lawn, especially since it was always dried up by August anyway. As I have found repeatedly throughout my life, the most trying of times, produce the most satisfying of results. 

Now, instead of “Draculawn,” we have “The Invisible Lawn,” and a great success all around.