183. Homes

If you remember, one of C.W.’s firm decisions to do or not to do something for the coming year (new year’s resolutions) was to have his own thick piece of soft material used to reduce friction or jarring (pad, or home). I made the mistake of not nipping this idea in the bud and …

He came walking in a couple of days later carrying this huge set of plans and proceeded to unroll it on the kitchen table.

To say they were plans for a new home would be like saying that Gone With the Wind was a story about a little southern girl.

The roll laid flat must have been an inch thick. I walked over and looked. Oh my. What lay before me were plans for a monstrous building on several acres of land. A quick review indicated a structure of maybe 15,000 square feet.

“C.W.,” I said, “what is this?”

“My new home.”

“Your new home?”

“Nice, huh?”

“Your new home?”

“I’ll be the envy of the Galaxy.”

“You’ll be institutionalized,” I said. “This is monstrous.”

“As they say, just a little place to lay my head.”

I flipped a sheet. “And who all is going to live here?”

“Just me,” he said as if I had just asked why we need air to breath.

“In this thing?”

“Let me walk you through it,” he said, beginning to point out features. “See the five-car garage?”

“But you don’t have a car.”

“Not now,” he said, then he continued. “Here is the bedroom floor. Six bedrooms, each with its own bath. Of course the master bedroom is on the ground floor. This wing here.” He pointed to a room that measured 20 feet by 30 feet on the plans. “Right next to the ‘theater room’ so,” he blushed, “the effects of a romantic movie won’t be spoiled by having to climb stairs.”

“What’s this?” I said, pointing to a large room attached to the master bathroom.

“An office.”

“In the master bathroom?”

“One never knows,” he said. “when opportunity may call.”

“This is ridiculous,” I said.

“I know,” he said. “Isn’t America a great place?”

I said, “And who would pay the utilities?”

“You would,” he said. “It’s part of the agreement.”

“And who will pay for building the thing?”

“That’s the beauty of it,” he said. “We’ll soon be able to afford this and more.”

“And how, exactly?”

He assumed a pedantic tone. “In case you haven’t noticed, it is rapidly becoming legal to grow cannabissativa in this country. We,” he stopped, “You, and Mrs. Big Dope have several hundred acres of prime farmland. Money will be no object once folks start lighting up.”

“Have you already started?”

He ignored me. “This plan can’t fail.”

“Oh yes it can.” I said.

“And just how?”

With great fortune comes great responsibility.
Success must be matched by good taste. - C.W.

I didn’t know where to start. “Well, for one thing, there are thousands of folks in our state that own more farmland than we. If only a portion of them move to pot as their main crop, oversupply will ruin the price.”

“That’s the beauty of it,” he said again.

“Over-supply?”

“Farm subsidies,” he said.

I groaned.

“Who do you want to select as our contractor?” he said.

Victory Over Drugs

Sometimes C.W. tones down his appearance and this was one of those days. He asked me to meet him at a coffee shop in our local library complex.


Arriving, I recognized him straight away. He appeared as … how will I describe him? Well, “Grandpa Walton” would fit as well as anything.

He sat at one of the large tables with newspapers spread in front of him and a large coffee in his hand. He peeked over the top of a pair of reading glasses and motioned for me to sit.

“They don’t have real cups in here,” he said. “They serve coffee in these paper-sorta things.”

“You don’t find real cups much anymore,” I said. It’s best to agree with him just wait for the conversation to unravel. Patrons were stirring about in the shop, some studying the bookshelves lining the area. No one paid us any mind, a fact with probably says more about library patrons than it does about the species in general.

“Says here,” he began. “Let’s see, where is it?” He stirred the stack of newspapers, looking for a specific item. I waited.

“Ah, here it is,” he said, pulling the selection in front of him as he adjusted his spectacles. Then he took a sip of coffee.

“This is one of those “bits from yesteryear” columns—from a county newspaper out in West Virginia. “Says here from 40 years ago,” he looked at me and repeated, “Forty years ago.” The he resumed, “ ‘… the County Sheriff’s department destroyed a ten-acre field of marijuana plants this past Saturday and arrested the owner as it continues the war against drugs in America.’”

He looked at me over his spectacles as if I had been the owner of said crop. I knew how a suspect in a murder case must feel when he takes the witness stand. He sipped his coffee.

After several seconds he spoke. “Forty years, eh?”

“What?”

“Been waging this so-called ‘war on drugs’ for 40 years?”

“Probably longer than that.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“Has your species been victorious?”

“Uh, no.”

“Nearly so?”

“Not quite.”

“How about a status report then? He said. “How are we doing … drugs pretty near defeated? Have they requested a truce to talk peace?”

“Not exactly.”

“What, exactly?”

“It gets more hopeless and costly each day.”

He fumbled among the papers again and slid out a handwritten note. “Here’s something,” he said. “This man of your species, Clausewitz, says that war is an act of violence intended to compel our opponent to fulfill our will.”

“I’m sure he said that.”

“So are you compelling ‘drugs’ to your will?”

“I’m afraid it’s the other way around.”

“Still burning crops and arresting people after all these years?”

“Constantly.”

He scattered papers around and produced another note. “Here’s one more,” he said. “Can’t find the exact author but it is widely quoted.”

“Let’s hear it,” I said.

“The definition of ‘insanity’ is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.”

“Far out, man,” I said.

42. Farmers

Of course I recognized him straight away. C.W. had called and said meet him for coffee early this morning. It wasn’t hard. How many times does one enter Starbucks and see a portly man wearing overalls and a straw hat? I started to execute an “about-face” and leave, but he had already spotted me.

“Big Dope,” he yelled loud enough to be heard in the nearest county. “Moan over here and set.” He had already purchased two coffees so what could I do?

As I eased into a chair, I noticed that he had been studying a small booklet. Our state legislature was in session and he had obtained one of those free publications that feature information about the various senators and representatives.

“Can’t be long,” he said. “Got to be cuttin’ hay.”

“C.W., I said. “It’s February.”

“You don’t cut hay in February?”

“Not in Arkansas.”

“Well, I’ll swan. Guess I’ll chop some cotton.”

“Will you cut it out?”

“Tell me something, Jimbo,” he said, picking up the booklet.

“Don’t call me that,” I said. “What can I tell you?”

“Been studyin’ up on legislators,” he said.

“And?”

“Was wondering why so many of the men list their occupations as ‘farmers.’ Don’t y’all elect anyone else?”

“Well,” I said. “They’re not really farmers. At least not as a primary occupation.”

“It says here they are,” he said, picking up the booklet. “You mean they don’t really farm. They lyin’?”

“They farm the way George Washington built Mount Vernon.”

“How’s that?”

“They own some land and workers and drive by every once in awhile to see what’s going on.”

“I’ll swan,” he said. “Who in blazes are they?”

“It varies. A lot are attorneys and some are bankers.”

“I can see how a feller wouldn’t want to admit to that.”

“Now don’t stereotype our species. We’ve talked about that before.”

“I reckon. So who does the real farming that I see going on?”

“Corporations to a large extent. It’s a business like anything else.”

He sipped his coffee and grimaced. “I still don’t see how y’all drink this stuff,” he said. “Hit tastes worse than a heifer’s hind-end smells.”

I ignored him and glanced around to see if anyone was watching.

After a moment, he asked, “Well why in the world do they choose farming to list as an occupation if that ain’t what they do?”

“Who knows,” I said. “Maybe they think it produces an image of a strong, independent man of the soil who bows down to nobody—like the ‘Marlboro Man.’”

C.W. on Farming: "Looks like the old days are done fer"

“The one who died of cancer?”

“Yeah, that one.”

“Well somethin’ here don’t make no more sense than a preacher with a lot of money.”

“What’s that?”

“This ‘idee’ of independence. According to my research so far, farming may be the occupation in your country most heavily supported by the taxpayers.”

“Uh no, I said. That might be banking now.”

“I’ll swan,” he said.