A Weed Too Far

Friday, January 8, 2021

Well, I'm certainly not in Kansas anymore.

I never realized how insulated in my comfortable Christian bubble I was until my mom dropped me off at a farm in North Carolina with an ex-hippie farmer, his stoned son, and a self-described communist for three weeks.

More than anything, it's the pervasive cynicism and the constant use of f***, s***, and b**** that make me want to cry. And I do cry, every day, wishing that I could be making Linzer cookies with my sister and her boyfriend instead.

The other night the farmer's son–we'll call him Alfred–and the other woofer–we'll call her Jean–were smoking weed downstairs, and I could smell the smoke up in my room. As I write this, my room stinks of cigarette smoke, because Jean is smoking downstairs in the only truly warm room in the house. 

The kitchen and bathroom are about the same temperature as outside–colder if it's above 50 outside. The only factor that makes them better than outside is the absence of wind. When we wash dishes, the plates steam gently for a long time in the dish drainer, and in the mornings and evenings we can usually see our breath. This frigidity makes showering a chore, and trips to the cold end of the house are carefully planned out and consolidated.

I wanted this so badly. Now all I want is to go home and never leave again. Ever.

I did enjoy our day trip to Charleston, SC. Jean and I walked from the hospital, where Nick was getting his leaking valve fixed, to Rainbow Row, taking pictures all the way. I had photographed the Row from one direction and had just turned to photograph the other when a woman came out of her house. I lowered my phone, deciding to wait until she went back inside, but she saw us and said, "There are no flowers, I'm sorry! I'm working on it!" She was referring to the empty window boxes outside her door; the window boxes of the other residents of the Row were overflowing with sweet-smelling blooms. "I just moved in."

Jean asked, "Do you love it?"

The woman answered, almost conspiratorially, "I do."

"Is it as pretty on the inside as it is outside?" asked Jean.

"Yeah," the woman said. "There are four floors, two rooms to each floor, so the kitchen and dining room are on the ground floor ..." She described the rest of the layout and then told us how to get to the waterfront.

After she went back inside, I took a picture of that side of the Row.

Jean and I were talking about how much one of those houses must cost and she guessed three million. I thought that sounded high, but when we got back to the farm I looked it up and she was right: The house that we'd seen that was for sale on Rainbow Row cost $3,395,000. 

The farm work is actually very easy. Mostly we've been picking and sorting pecans, shelling dried peas and beans, hoeing, and weeding. It's my job to collect the chickens' eggs every morning, and to check the water levels in the chicken and goat enclosure. The goats, Pan and Puck, love to terrorize the chickens and stomp on their eggs. I do not love Pan and Puck.

The other evening, Nick told me that I reminded him of a woman he had been engaged to. He said, "She was kind of an old lady in some ways ..." 

I get the feeling that the others don't take me seriously; they think that I'm naïve, that I'll grow out of my religiosity and law-abidingness once I discover the delights of drinking, smoking, and drugs.

I am reminded of my favorite speech from all seven books of the Chronicles of Narnia, given by Puddleglum in The Silver Chair: "'One word, Ma'am,' he said, coming back from the fire; limping, because of the pain. 'One word. All you've been saying is quite right, I shouldn't wonder. I'm a chap who always liked to know the worst and then put the best face I can on it. So I won't deny any of what you said. But there's one more thing to be said, even so. Suppose we have only dreamed, or made up, all those things-trees and grass and sun and moon and stars and Aslan himself. Suppose we have. Then all I can say is that, in that case, the made-up things seem a good deal more important than the real ones. Suppose this black pit of a kingdom of yours is the only world. Well, it strikes me as a pretty poor one. And that's a funny thing, when you come to think of it. We're just babies making up a game, if you're right. But four babies playing a game can make a play-world which licks your real world hollow. That's why I'm going to stand by the play world. I'm on Aslan's side even if there isn't any Aslan to lead it. I'm going to live as like a Narnian as I can even if there isn't any Narnia. So, thanking you kindly for our supper, if these two gentlemen and the young lady are ready, we're leaving your court at once and setting out in the dark to spend our lives looking for Overland. Not that our lives will be very long, I should think; but that's a small loss if the world's as dull a place as you say.'"

I'm on Jesus' side even if there isn't any Jesus to lead it. I'm going to live as like a Christian as I can even if there isn't any Christ.

Sunday, January 10, 2021

Today I went for a walk and spent over an hour in the woods, talking on the phone with my parents. The outcome of the conversation was that my mom is coming to pick me up from the farm tomorrow. My intention when I called her was just to hear a familiar voice, but almost the first thing I said was, "I want to come home", and when she asked why, one of the things I mentioned was that Jean and Alfred were smoking weed, which is fully illegal in North Carolina.

Immediately she declared that she was coming to get me. The freezing house, the foul language, the borderline inappropriate and generally negative anecdotes ... All of that, she knew I could put up with for two more weeks, but the illegal substances pushed it over the line. My dad agreed.

As if to confirm my decision, after I got back from my walk and was sitting in my room, I smelled weed being smoked somewhere in the house.

I can't express how relieved I am. Let me hasten to clarify that at no time have I felt unsafe here. I've been well fed; the work has been easy, the hours more than reasonable. But the environment is toxic.

As relieved as I am, I'm also afraid: afraid of getting yelled at (despite the fact that Nick hardly has a voice); afraid of getting a bad review on WWOOF (despite the fact that I can just mention illegal substances and be fully justified in leaving without warning); afraid that I'm weak.

I had the same fear of weakness when I quit my job at the restaurant I was working at the summer before last. But at some point, the misery just isn't worth it. And when illegal substances are involved, it certainly isn't worth it.

I'm glad I came. This has been a valuable and eye-opening experience. Will I ever be coming back to this farm?

I sincerely hope not.