The signs of spring are everywhere.
The mail box is full of seed catalogues. The TV is cluttered with ads for crop production chemicals. The male woodchucks are out of their dens scurrying from burrow to burrow, mauling and mating.
At our place up in Blue, in anticipation of a ambitious gardening program, the Pearl of the Orient has stepped up my exercise schedule.
“Come on, Elliott, bend over that belly a few more times, and then double time to the highway and back,” barked the drill sergeant. “And here, rough your hands up on this ax handle. You won’t have time to nurse any blisters once it’s hoeing season.”
At the Café in Hooterville, the farmers fresh from the latest ag meeting were debating their cropping options.
“I think I’ll try another plot of that there cash crop hemp,” opined Puddin’ Pye as he licked up the last crumbs of his toast and extended his cup for his fourth “free” refill.
“Hemp? Puff . . . puff . . . puffff . . . Ain’t that the same as marijuana,” questioned Ol’ Pipe as he fired up his briar, filling the room with a cloud of acrid smoke.
(Ol’ Pipe had migrated down to Hooterville for the afternoon for a doctor’s appointment after his dog bit him–again. If it happens too many more times, he figures he might have to shoot the dog).
At the mention of the word “marijuana,” the whole Café suddenly became attentive. Two Customs agents slopped coffee on their shirts as their cups suddenly froze halfway to their lips.
“Hey, we’ll be able to set up a bust,” they whispered to each other.
“Oh gawd, no! More paperwork,” groaned OPP officer Swash Buckler as he fished in his pocket for another extra-strength pain killer.
In the corner, Burnt Pye, Puddin’s errant son, wondered what this new competition would do to his up-til-now buoyant market prices. “Maybe I should set up a marketing board?” he mused aloud.
Frank and Jesse–the James Boys–iron merchants come ranchers, at the mention of the word “cash,” momentarily diverted their attention from the logger’s wallet they were jointly trying to lighten. The logger, taking advantage of the lull in the onslaught, made a mad dash for freedom.
“Well, yeah, but this hemp is for seed and fibre. Y’see, it has all the dope bred outta it an’ y’ couldn’t get a buzz on if y’ smoked a bale of it . . . so I’m told,” explained Puddin’ as he innocently reached for a piece of toast from Ol’ Pipe’s plate but withdrew when, from out of his smoke shroud, Ol’ Pipe fixed him with a steely glare.
“Matter of fact, the ex spurts claim it’ll cross with the high-grade stuff and reduce the strength of the “B.C. Bud” by at least 50 percent,” stated Puddin’ with authority.
Burnt Pye waited no longer, hurrying from the Café, his only thought to find a new location for his own plots, safe from the contamination of this new pest.
“Hey Burnt, ya forgot to pay again!” yelled the proprietor, Squint, and then resignedly picked up a pencil and sorted through his box of chits.
“What if some of that high-grade out there crossed with your hemp? Wouldn’t that . . . puff . . . puff . . . boost the buzz . . . puff . . . puff . . . in your hemp, too?” queried Ol’ Pipe as he applied another wooden match to his briar.
“Well . . . maybe . . . .” wondered Puddin’.
“Say, I’ll betcha that’s why the wife, Cupcake, had such a big, goofy grin on her face after burnin’ the crop residue last fall,” he added. “An’ she suggested we grow it again.
“Hmmmm, I wonder . . . .”
