by Laurel Dewey
Inside the box was a vacuum-sealed pound of premium cannabis bud. The label read: L.A. Confidential/Northern California – 2005.
Chapter 24
“…He had a fight with a hammer and the hammer lost.”
Betty brought the pound of buds down to the kitchen and cut open the airtight plastic bag. To her shock and amazement, it still retained a fairly strong, skunky aroma with a hint of pine. She brought out one of the dense, dark green buds and clearly saw the frosty maroon red hairs. Some of the smaller buds weren’t as aromatically pungent, so she set those aside. But after carefully rooting through the bag, she ended up with almost seven ounces of incredibly pungent cannabis. Once it passed the smell test, she needed to figure out if there was still some kick left to it, after spending five years in the dark, airtight storage. Betty carried a bud to the stove and gently lit it on the burner. After blowing out the flame, she held the bud to her nose and inhaled one good ribbon of smoke. It took about one minute before she felt a smooth but relaxing buzz creep from her head to her toes. She may have only been able to salvage seven ounces out of the pound, but cannabis bud was a lot stronger than sweet leaf shake, so she factored she could use less and still obtain the same medicinal effects.
Betty immediately looked up the L.A. Confidential strain on her computer, and found to her delight that it was a three-time Cannabis Cup winner for best Indica strain and boasted a stunning eighteen percent THC. It was also used mainly for pain and insomnia – two issues she was sure all of her patients would benefit from. Obviously, after five years in hiding, the THC content might have been compromised. But if the smoke test was any indication, Betty knew she had a reprieve from worrying about how she was going to take care of her patients.
It was nothing short of a strange, almost mystical discovery. And then she remembered the last time she saw Frankie alive, when he insisted on going up to his old room alone. She recalled the backpack slung over his shoulder, which she only now realized held the brick of cannabis. But where in the hell did he get such a huge amount of herb? And why was he secreting it away in their home? There was no way to explain it except that somehow, Frankie did this for a purpose she wasn’t prepared to understand. And if she couldn’t explain it, there was no way she was about to bring it up to Peyton. She diligently wrapped up the useable bud and hid it in her bedroom closet, next to Frankie’s box of ashes.
Peyton arrived with a bag that held a tub of yellow sulfur crystals, a metal-handled burner and two green headlamps. They still had half an hour before the lights went out in the veg room, but Peyton wanted to get everything set up. Putting the items on the living room table, he explained the whole process. Sulfur burning had to be done with the lights off, because if light hit the leaves during the process – or even a few hours afterward – there was a risk of burning the leaves, turning them black. The leaves also had to be free of oils, such as those natural substances used for pest control, as that would also destroy the plant, essentially denuding it, leaving only a lonely stalk. While sulfuring cannabis plants was extreme, so was the potentially devastating effects of PM, especially when one’s intention was to make medicine out of the mature plants. As Peyton described it, the sulfur burner was hung over the plants, and after it was filled with the yellow sulfur crystals, the burner was plugged in and allowed to warm up, until a slow, smoky vapor that smelled like decaying eggs wafted through the enclosed space. There was no way to be in the room during the process, but after about three hours when the smoke dissipated, one could return to the room wearing a green headlamp and remove the burner. The entire process made Betty as nervous as a whore in church. But the thought of losing her girls worried her more. They went downstairs and were instantly greeted with the incessant chirping birds CD.
Peyton put his hands to his ears. “Sweet baby Jesus! Make it stop!”
“I can’t!” Betty said, talking over a particularly high-pitched, starling sequence. “It opens the stomata! I figured it would help the sulfur absorb better.”
“For real?”
“Yes. For real.”
“What about music?”
“Oh, they get that too. They start the day with chirping birds. Mid-morning they get Vivaldi’s Four Seasons, lunch is a series of energetic Strauss Waltzes, then a bit of down time for their nap. Baroque starts in the late afternoon and then we move through Beethoven and Bach, before we end the day with a calming Mozart compilation and a final restful Suite Number 3: Air on the G String. It’s one of my favorite Baroque pieces. You know what they say, Peyton. If it ain’t Baroque, don’t fix it.”
He looked at her with a confused expression. “I’m still fixating on the G String.” He noticed the temperature sensor on the wall. “What’s that?”
“That’s synced to two digital thermometers upstairs. One is in my bedroom and the other is in the kitchen. That way I can remotely keep tabs on the temperature.”
“Geez, Betty. You’ve taken this to a whole new level. It’s like you just adopted a Cambodian orphan, and you’re worried it’s gonna suffocate in its pillow. You sure you don’t want to install a baby monitor just in case they call out in the middle of the night for a cup of water?”
“This is coming from a young man who sleeps with his plants?” she countered with a gentle smile, turning the volume down on the chirping birds. “Did you hear about the caregivers who were assaulted in their home and had their plants stolen?”
He nodded. “Yeah, dude. It sucks. They obviously showed their grow op to the wrong person.”
“Well, that’s not going to happen here. But I do think we need to take precautions. From now on, when we’re talking on the phone or between us, we won’t use the word ‘plants.’ Instead, we’ll talk about ‘the girls.’ So if I say the girls are hungry, it means I’m feeding them. Or when I say the girls want to see you, it means come over. If I say the girls need a little special attention, that means we need to amend their nutrients. Make sense?”
“Yeah. Sure. One problem though, Betty. Instead of people assuming you’re growing cannabis, they are gonna assume you’re running a brothel.”
“Well, just as long as I don’t get screwed either way,” she said with a wry smile. “Speaking of the girls, before the lights go out, I want to get your opinion on this one.” She pointed to the partially top-chewed Centennial Blueberry plant that Ronald trashed. “What do you think? Is she going to make it, or did Ronald permanently stunt her?”
Peyton examined the plant carefully. “Nah. He just super-cropped her. That’s cannabis speak for ‘high tech pruning.’ Instead of a top cola, you’ll get three or four top ones. People do this on purpose to create more of a canopy bush effect, so that light can penetrate down to the lower branches better.”
“Okay.” She looked at the plant with a scowl of displeasure. “But this branch looks like it’s deformed. I’m just concerned it’s not going to rally to the occasion. It’s already stunted compared to the others and difficult to prop up. And look over at this leaf –”
“Betty, Betty, Betty. You’re freakin’ out over nothin’. Remember? This is supposed to be fun.”
“Right. Fun.”
“No, I’m serious, Betty. Fun? The plant’s gonna make it. It may not look perfect but it’s worth keeping around.” He set the plant down and put a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “Dude, I can see how attached you already are. It happens to all of us. These plants…these girls…they capture your heart in a very strange way. But you gotta stop worrying so much about the little stuff.” He leaned forward, whispering to her in confidence. “They can feel your stress, and that’s not doing them any good. They just want to chill, you know? Listen to some tunes, drink some water, eat some food, be talked to in a soothing manner and grow to their greatest healing potential.”
She contemplated his guidance. “Good advice.” She peered down at the lopsided plant and a brazen idea formed. “I’m going to call that girl Helen. She’s got a lot of issues.”
Peyton st
arted setting up the sulfur burner. Betty looked around the room and felt a deep sense of connection with her young flock.
“You know, Peyton. You’re right. I really think I might have found my niche.”
He looked up. “Oh yeah? I didn’t know your niece was missing.”
An hour later, after feeding Peyton a light but suitable snack for that time of evening, Betty gave him a large bag of llama beans. One would have thought she’d given him a glow-in-the-dark watering can by the look of excitement in his eyes.
Betty realized something drastic had to be done. As far as she was concerned, he needed companionship as soon as possible. “Are you free for lunch tomorrow?” she asked him.
“Yeah. It’s my day off. But tomorrow’s my scheduled pre-flip, foliar spray on the ladies who are heading into bloom.”
“Yes, of course it is. But you’re meeting me outside The Gilded Rose at noon. I’ll write down the address. It’ll be fun. Trust me.”
And as it turned out, it was fun. After lunch the following day, Betty nonchalantly suggested a post-meal visit to The Green Wellness dispensary where Yarrow just so happened to be working as a bud tender. She also just happened to have a new hairstyle, thanks to Betty’s dependable stylist. And not so strangely, it just so happened that Peyton and Yarrow hit it off, like two cannabis plants under the same grow light. When she left them at the dispensary, she had a strong feeling her second imperfect son would soon have something else to occupy his free time.
~~~
The days passed quickly, and before she knew it, summer was in full swing. By early July, Peyton told Betty it was time to flip her plants from veg into bloom. But first, he showed her how to clone them. Choosing the most vigorous and healthy plants that had the densest growth patterns, they spent a hot summer afternoon carefully cutting the best specimens from the lower branches, dipping them in cloning solution and securing them in wet peat plugs. From there, they placed the cuttings in a large, water-filled cloning unit with multiple jets that, when turned on, sprayed the peat to encourage root growth. She kept track of each plant and which “mother” it came from, by affixing handwritten labels made out of masking tape to the edges of each plug. The only plant they didn’t clone was White Russian, not wanting to continue the powdery mildew problem.
Of all the original “mother” plants, the Kushberry ones had grown like they had something to prove, measuring an astounding three feet. “Helen,” the Centennial Blueberry plant that Ronald “supercropped,” had also taken on the look of a lush, healthy bush, with a discernable canopy filled with dozens of beautiful nodes that would eventually transform into even more outstanding buds. With each passing week, Betty invested more time and money in her stable of twelve girls. Seeing her electric bill that covered the first month of growing, she realized that, as the saying goes, experience ran up big bills and so did those grow lights. In an attempt to conserve energy, she snuck the girls outside to wave in the soft breeze under the large elm tree. They always seemed happier and infused with vitality after a day in the sun. That treat would become less viable once they began blooming and growing taller. The heady scent of the developing buds would require them to be held captive inside.
Thanks to Betty’s matchmaking, Peyton and Yarrow had formed a great friendship that turned into something more serious in late June. It seemed to be the perfect coupling, even though Peyton still had no idea she had Canadian blood running through her veins.
Betty still had only three of the five patients allowed by Colorado law. But Buddy, Dottie and Dr. Dave certainly kept her busy making chocolates. She even experimented making several salves, using the cannabis coconut oil infusion, and found it to be a great hit with her trio. Buddy especially was hooked on the salve and was convinced it was helping relieve the spasms in his lower back. Dottie even used it on a few of her horses, and she said they seemed to benefit from daily applications. The trick, she told Betty, was keeping the salve tucked away so no one else would find it. After several visits to Dottie’s ranch to deliver chocolates and more cannabis salve, Betty noticed that Hugh, the ranch manager, was becoming increasingly concerned, hovering close to the barn every time Betty arrived. As for Doctor Dave, Betty met him every Wednesday in the lake, wading out to chat, before leaving the chocolates in his cooler. The three of them were a joy to work with – even Buddy slowly let down his usual, pulled-back demeanor and was more at ease with Betty.
It was, as Betty began to call it, her summer of love. She had her girls she adored, and she had Jeff who adored her. She knew when she gave him a key to the house, he was more than just a passing infatuation. When he wasn’t there or she wasn’t at his house outside of Paradox, she felt as if a part of her was missing. It was such an odd feeling, because their relationship “on paper” continued to make no sense to her. But the Betty that had been buried for too many decades gradually emerged, bonding with him in a sensuous, arousing celebration that made her feel young and in bloom. And yet, she continued to keep their relationship a secret from her friends. Betty told herself it was because she was private and the bond between them was sacrosanct. But deep down, there was more to the exclusion of his name than she wanted to admit. Even their overnight getaway to Glenwood Springs for his birthday in June was fraught with creative deception, when Judi unexpectedly showed up at the house and saw Betty’s overnight bag by the door. She appeased Judi by telling her that she used the bag to store winter blankets. Betty knew this subterfuge couldn’t go on forever. But then she told herself if she could successfully hide the girls, she could also continue to hide the man.
What she couldn’t hide, however, was the way she was changing. She brought out photos of Frankie and propped them up around the house. For the first time, she allowed her grey roots to grow out a little longer before coloring them. The soft adagios still played in her bedroom, but she discovered that listening to the local classic rock station, while driving with the windows rolled down, made her feel alive. And every single night, right before bed, she took upwards of a half-teaspoon of the cannabis-infused coconut oil.
On the local news front, the fallout from Renée’s letter to the editor continued, as local anger toward the number of dispensaries in Paradox and the surrounding towns created an antagonistic atmosphere. When one of the dispensaries had their front room destroyed by a Molotov Cocktail thrown through their storefront window, Renée kept the blaze burning by writing yet another letter to the editor, thanking the arsonist who “took care of business.” It was such an odd thing for Renée to do, Betty thought. But she noticed that Renée’s fervor had intensified with the summer heat, turning her into a cannabis Carrie Nation, swinging her pen like a hatchet. She was manically gleeful when the law-abiding dispensary, with no signs of criminal activity, was forced to shut down. Even the woman known as “Elizabeth Cragen,” who signed that blistering letter in early May, would never have preened or taken credit for the destruction of someone’s business. While it angered Betty, she kept her mouth shut.
As expected, the righteousness of the Reverend Bobby Lynch hadn’t slowed down either. In June, he launched a summer camp through his church where children spent two weeks in a remote rural setting and endured daily lectures on the “talons of Satan, promiscuity, drinking and marijuana.” After hearing him bleat on about his camp one evening on the local news, Betty wondered whatever happened to hiking, swimming, sitting around a campfire eating s’mores, and making keepsake boxes out of pine cones and twine.
But Reverend Lynch still had Doobie Douggie to contend with. For every story featuring Lynch, there were two highlighting the latest adventures of the grey-haired, wheelchair-bound cannabis reformer. Some members of the public might not have endorsed Douggie’s behavior, but they couldn’t ignore his in-your-face determination to “free the weed.” Draped in another flag made with hemp fabric and emblazoned with large cannabis leaves, Douggie rolled over to the state capitol, lit up a joint and spent thirty minutes explaining to the local Denver news organ
izations how the herb could cure everything from epilepsy to cancer. It was when he dared to mention the “C” word, that the capitol security asked the cops to remove him. As Betty watched them wheel the crusader away, she marveled at the fact that he never looked like a victim. He might not have been able to walk, but he could stand up to anyone at anytime and outthink them all.
When it was time to purchase the bloom lights, Betty gathered together all the money she’d saved from the sales of her chocolates as well as the consignment cash, and found she had just enough for the two, thousand-watt sets she needed. She opted for the best quality unit available at the grow store where Peyton worked, and then adding the required high phosphorus nutrients, blackstrap molasses and foliar sprays necessary to help trigger the girls into bloom, the bill came to just over twelve hundred dollars. “That’s a helluva lot of chocolates,” Betty thought to herself as she secured the huge boxes in the backseat of her Taurus. Back at the house, Jeff built two sturdy support frames to hang the hooded lights, and then together they secured the units to the immovable structures. While Jeff checked the bloom room for any light leaks, Betty prepped the girls, removing any yellow leaves and large fan leaves that obscured bud nodes, treated them with the necessary organic foliar sprays and phosphorus-rich food and finished with a top-dressing of rich humus. All the while, the chirping birds CD played in the background. At one point, Jeff handed Betty a couple vintage CDs featuring the humor of George Carlin.
