In Oregon my wife and I had finally found our little dream farm with a red barn. Our dream came as a five year project — whose process we told ourselves we were enjoying . . sort of . . most of the time.
Then, at about year three my hands gave out — not in our plan. Fortuitously at that time, I just happened to be talking to my neighbor, a public official, who upon hearing my dilemma made a casual suggestion. “You need to try a little ‘bud’ — an 82-year-old friend of mine does. Works for her hands.”
Why not? We had found ourselves in a little farming valley in Southern Oregon where the question was not, “Who do you know that grows (marijuana)?” but rather, “Who do you know that doesn’t?” But, even though surrounded by it, I had a natural fear of going to jail for anything, even on behalf of my fiery hands. So, I took the straight-arrow, legal path: got a prescription from a real doctor, a permit from the State to grow my own drugs legally. No problem, I was already a great organic gardner, six little plants should be easy!
And so began “My Life With Bud” — a three-year span of adventures of a naive, good-hearted neophyte who adventured into the world of making-your-own painkillers: a process that was illegal, then legal; secretive and hidden, then out in the open — full of unpredictables and funny stories.