Discrete Weed Quotes

...the unmistakable smell of poverty, a mixture of cigarette smoke, weed, stale sweat, and fried food.

Low branches, dead and snapping against us. On the lookout for rattlesnakes. But the path was short enough, and soon we were on a kind of terrace. Old lawn overgrown by grass and weed, old concrete cracked in discrete chunks, vast areas overrun. An enchanted place for me, and only for me, because I was too young to remember, and so in my mind this place could become more.

It was in her garden that whatever physical grace Abigail St. Croix possessed asserted itself. She moved among her flowers with consummate natural fluidity, enjoying the incommunicable pleasures of growing things with the patience and concentration of a watchmaker. In this, her small, green country, surrounded by an embrasure of old Charleston brick, there were camellias of distinction, eight discrete varieties of azaleas, and a host of other flowers, but she directed her prime attention to the growing of roses. She had taught me to love flowers since I had known her; I had learned that each variety had its own special personality, its own distinctive and individual way of presenting itself to the world. She told me of the shyness of columbine, the aggression of ivy, and the diseases that affected gardenias. Some flowers were arrogant invaders and would overrun the entire garden if allowed too much freedom. Some were so diffident and fearful that in their fragile reticence often lived the truest, most infinitely prized beauty. She spoke to her flowers unconsciously as we made our way to the roses in the rear of the garden. “You can learn a lot from raising roses, Will. I’ve always told you that.” “I’ve never raised a good weed, Abigail. I could kill kudzu.” “Then one part of your life is empty,” she declared. “There’s a part of the spirit that’s not being fed.

Thanksgiving following Powerball held a different vibe than years past. When Gooch arrived with a wine case mixed with whites and reds—part of a massive purchase to restock Pogo’s cellar—Indian Leo was there to greet him. “I see Powerball changes everything! Your first Thanksgiving with us!” “Show me where to set this down, then let’s talk. I have a proposal for you.” Leo waved Gooch to follow. “And giving orders like a rich man!” The two wound up huddled behind a brandy still in a far, dark corner of the barn, invisible to those gathering for the feast. After hitting the bowl Leo had passed to him, Gooch laid out the consortium’s plan, talked about hidden caves and the promise he’d made to his father. Despite a niggling disrespect for Leo, Gooch grudgingly admired the Nindian’s life experience, competence, and wisdom that arose unexpectedly—usually when it was needed most. “I can see the merit in this. I think it’s providence, what you propose. I’ll chant on this tonight and then you’ll have my answer.” The darkness between them was interrupted by the embers glowing from the pull on his pipe. Flynn and The Don watched their friends return from the barn’s shadows, curious as to what the Nindian’s answer would be. Leo’s weed was famous throughout the Rockies—his “Butter Rum Snatch” and “Shush Kush” particularly popular with skiers wanting to find themselves either landing in soft pillows or navigating slopes of cerebral adventure. Getting Leo on board with tending the grow would be a real coup. After swatting away the buzzing fly that was Toothless Don, The Don heaped his plate pheasant, yams, globs of Jello-fruit-Cool-Whip, green bean casserole, then told Flynn that Gooch made the best choice for the operation’s gardener. Pointing forked roasted bird to rafters, he declared, “Leo goes for it. Why wouldn’t he? His autonomy? As a grower? Methinks this shit expands his trip.” “Everything I’ve smoked up here is primo. If that’s the guy growing it? I’m down.” Satisfied with his own plate, Flynn watched Whisper pull Leo aside as Gooch slapped some skin all around then jogged his way to the buffet. Gooch opted for duck, ladling gravy over scooped out mashed potatoes, slopping down collard greens and grabbing two Hawaiian sweet rolls. After pounding a few mouthfuls of food, he looked to his friends for affirmation. “Leo’s weed lasts what? Two months up here? And then, we’re stuck with ditchweed or expensive shit from Paonia or wherever. With our operation, he’ll do what he does and make tons more money. Because he won’t be limited by seasons. And we’ll have kine bud, like, whenever. I think he’s our gardener.” “Where did that come from, squire?” The Don waved his fork, wild-rice stuffing sprayed within the wake of his gestures. “Thinking. Out loud. Wondering if Leo is good for this or if he isn’t going to start doing fucking tours down in the caves.” Pulling meat from his plate and chewing on what he’d snagged, Gooch’s brow drooped to darken his eyes. “You know how he is.” Flynn didn’t know. “How do you mean?” Gooch cast a glance at Flynn’s plate where none of the food touched, meat, starch and veggies divided neatly into discrete nutritional piles. “The man has secrets. I mean, we all have secrets, but he more than most. Which tells me he won’t go blabbing about this, our thing.” “Cosa nostra,” The Don mumbled his Godfather impression. Seated and filling their faces, the three found other table conversations focused entirely on the winners, what they were planning to do with all that money—the winners, everyone meant—and how it was great for the town, especially for the winners. A rubber ball of a topic that kept bouncing back, no matter how hard lottery winners tried to send the trajectory in another direction.

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