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Confession of a pot seller*


I sold the newspapers in 2000 but kept my shoulder to the grindstone for another dozen years. First, I went to college at the age of 48. After graduating, I tried part-time and substitute teaching for five years. Then Orange Hat Mowing was formed and I cut grass part-time as my own boss for a few summers. In between, I also did a little ESL teaching. By 2014, I was completely retired from everything except for my pot growing business. Instead of cutting grass I decided to grow it.
Like Granny on the Beverly Hillbilly’s and her triple XXX jug of moonshine, I’ve always kept some herb around for medicinal proposes. You know for the gout, sciatica and days containing the letter Y. I could never bring myself to buy it for several reasons including: patriotism, sending money to foreign drug cartels is bad for country; quality, some might snicker at Iowa ditch but they don’t appreciate the quality of our soil and great growing conditions; and prudence, if you buy on the market who knows how many people know your name?
And, it was easy. Each spring I’d germinate a few seeds and put the young females plants in the ground in the odd nooks and crannies hidden in the Iowa countryside. My favorite locations were along the edges of the dozens or so forgotten cemeteries that dot the rural roads around Solon.
The planting was done from my bicycle. In one pannier, I could get eight plants, and, in the other, I took camera equipment. This was back in the day when a serious photographer carried a single reflex camera (SLR) with two or three lenses. Toss in a tripod and half dozen rolls of film (remember film?) and the saddlebag was full and heavy. While farming, I liked taking pictures of the old monuments, plus it provided a good cover story in the odd chance I ran into someone that wanted to know what I was doing.
Over the years, my thumb got greener and, as a tour de force, I began growing one plant almost out my front door in the little patch of weeds just down the street from my apartment next to Bob’s DX. There it grew, right out in the open on Main Street, only yards away from the coffee klatch that convened at the station most mornings. Bob and the boys played right into my hand by adopting it as a practical joke. They watered, fertilized and then watched the eyes bug out of out-of-towners who stopped by for a fill up, windshield cleaning and oil check (something called full-service in the day). Every fall that plant would mysteriously disappear and give the gents something to jaw over for weeks.
Besides never buying pot; I never sold it, at least not at first. Because one good plant could yield a pound or more of grade A ganja and my needs were meager, I always had plenty of hay on hand. So I gave away the rest. Mostly I gave to the local folks, you know, truck drivers, farmers, lawyers, store clerks, doctors, teachers, bartenders, daycare providers, cops, etc.
Did you think I got elected to city council twice on my looks?
But that changed, in 1991, because of the upcoming presidential election.
I don’t think people living elsewhere appreciate what a zoo our quiet agricultural state becomes every four years. You can’t swing a dead cat without hitting someone giving a stump speech. Anyway, somebody said something to somebody else, and the next thing I knew a staffer from the Clinton/Gore campaign approached me to see if they could score a couple of ounces for Bill and Al. I considered just giving it away, but the operative pulled out a big wad of hundred dollar bills, and I thought, “what the hell?”
To make a long story short, my name and services soon got passed down the grapevine and I was supplying all the politicians, including George W. Bush, John Kerry, John Edwards, Howard Dean and my all time best customer, Sarah Palin (stoned around the clock).
Somehow my name got passed to the Hollywood set, and soon I was setting aside buds for Oliver Stone, Hugh Hefner, Robert Downey Jr., Madonna, Johnny Depp, Susan Sarandon, Martha Stewart, Morgan Freeman, David Letterman, Jennifer Aniston, Brat Pitt, George Clooney... and people think I married into money?
But now, at the age of 63, I’ve finally decided to become an upstanding member of the community and quit smoking and selling completely. If you see me about on my bike, it’s probably just groceries in the bag. And if I seem a little addled, I plead old age.
And Rand Paul is frantically looking for a new source.
*All the politicians/celebrities mentioned are on record as having smoked pot, the rest is fiction.