“We hope that next year, marijuana products will be available all over Hutchinson!”
He was cheerily clearing small packets from a shabby brown card table. I was already cheerful holding my Smith’s Market free coffee. Compared to Smith’s food sample stations tucked amongst the fruits and vegetables, his presentation was not impressive. Perhaps cannabis sells itself.
The Pride Parade and the sidewalk display were cleared away, but the subject of weed was still on my mind.
Twenty-four years ago, the knowledgeable history/government teacher Mrs. Marcia Dillon came to visit. “You have marijuana,” she said, pointing to bushes of ditch weed along the parking space of our driveway. “This is worthless, low-grade stuff.”
If worthless, I concluded, it should be eliminated.
This “weed” soon brought me to my knees. If I used a string trimmer, it retaliated with strings of its own — hemp, prized for these very qualities — and rendered my machine lifeless.
I upgraded to a walk-behind trimmer with a heavy-duty braided line. Minutes later in a fog of blue smoke, I was again bowing to the ground. Box cutter in hand I had to surgically cut and extract hemp which had fused itself to the head of the trimmer. Another trimmer came equipped with eight-inch lengths of chain, but my small engine repairman refused to service it. “If one of the links comes loose, it could hit you.” Disappointed, but not deterred, I turned to my chainsaw. I’d rather clean and floss the teeth of an alligator than remove hemp vegetation from my chainsaw again.
At one point, I was declaring victory in my yard. Then I realized that my battle was a distraction while more powerful cannabis plants, with two kinds of root systems established themselves in fence lines, pathways and ditches. My twelve-foot bushy enemy watched as I prepared the line for battle: brush hog, sprayers of Weed Be Gone and Brush Be Gone, and a sober confidence. The day would be mine — or so I thought. I should have known, however, that weed fights on “higher” ground.
My enemy’s first line of defense was an army of invisible chiggers. These biting soldiers find spots on the body free from insect repellent gnawing flesh with an insatiable appetite.
The next onslaught was a cloud of whining, saber stinging mosquitoes. Berserk with hunger they don’t mind mixing chemicals with human blood.
In a final blast of Eco-warfare, these “low grade” cannabis plants exploded with powdery pollen. Eyes swollen shut and gagging for air, I admitted I was powerless over marijuana of any grade, and that my life was unmanageable. Turning my life over to the power who created this well-organized plant, I would learn to live and let live.
In that surrender, I noticed that my horses would snack on just sprig or two of the plant. The mare with health problems might take an extra bite. Could she be self-medicating? None of them abused their access to marijuana.
I then realized I had it wrong all along: I had been weeding my property. I should have seen a marketing opportunity: Low-Grade Weed for Beginners. Instead of weeding my property I should have been gardening my weed.
Credit: www.hutchnews.com
