Decades ago, a friend asked if he could plant his pot plants in the backyard of the tiny city house I was renting with my boyfriend. (He said I could have half the crop.) I said sure. So he planted them, and they grew, bigger and bigger. They were the size of small trees when I finally hacked them down and dried them out in my attic.
Now, I didn’t smoke pot, I really had no idea what to do with all this. (We didn’t have the internet yet.) So I put the leaves in my blender (blew out the motor), and then I picked out all the stems and seeds — because who wanted those? It didn’t seem fair to charge for them.
When it was all done, I had close to seven pounds of perfectly clean grass.
There was a pot drought at the time, and wake-and-bake types across America were jones-ing. My friend Kate knew someone who was looking, and asked if this guy Bob who was visiting from the coast could come over to try some.
Now, the pot was bright green (because it was so fresh), so I told him someone just brought it in from Columbia. He inhaled deeply, saying, “You know, I could probably even tell you what square mile of Columbia this is from.”
“Wow,” I said. (Everyone said “wow” a lot in those days.)
So he bought an ounce, and headed back to San Francisco, where, as it turns out, his job was as a go-fer for the Jefferson Airplane and the Grateful Dead. (He’s mentioned on the Airplane’s “After Bathing At Baxter’s” LP.) So he calls me and says “Jerry” loved it and wants three pounds. We settle on a price, he flies out, picks it up and heads back to the coast. (I used the proceeds to buy us a couple of ten-speed bikes.)
And that’s how I got Jerry Garcia high. Yes, it’s all my fault. Sorry.