I was at a weed dispensary in Berkeley a while back and the budtender enlightened me concerning an incredible California hybrid known as ‘Blue Dream.’ Through the enchantment of organic science, she stated, this cultivar improved the terrible impacts of both of the principle strains of cannabis– indica (general stupidity, dopiness) and sativa (tension, neurosis, restlessness) – while elevating their coveted impacts.
“Let me have some,” I said.
“We’re currently out of stock,” she said. “Unless you would like to grow yours.”
She showed me some racks along a side divider where small plants– clones developed from seed– sat in spiky lines, lit purple by overhead planting lights. She strolled over, chose a ‘Blue Dream’ clone, and smiled as though she had picked a puppy from a champion’s litter: “This one’s a champ!”
I took the pruned pot cautiously and inspected it with fear and discovered the child ‘Blue Dream’ resembled any nursery seedling. It was a couple of inches tall and right now had grown a cluster of sawtoothed yet delicate looking leaves. It looked so much like a baby rattlesnake.
“You owe me $15,” the budtender stated before I even decided to take the little plant. Was this a smart thought? I’m the IT fellow at home, not the planter. The State of California permits me, as a therapeutic weed allow holder, to grow up to 12 immature plants or 6 mature plants for my own utilization. In any case, I’ve never planted anything on my own, unless you check the tomato clone that once grew in a wet tennis shoe I’d relinquished behind a radiator in school.
In transit home from Berkeley, as I looked at the champion seated beside me, looking powerless and small, I was still thinking how all these came to be.
It began in the spring, when I took the decision to obtain a permit that allows me to purchase medical marijuana. I wouldn’t say it was peer pressure but a good number of my friends were doing this– and that had put the thought in my mind. Truly, the entire procedure, from getting the pot card to really purchasing weed, sounded quite fascinating, as something I would love to tell my grandkids when the Prohibition is over.
So I started up Yelp one evening and focused in on a neighborhood specialist who worked on such issues. I placed a call to an organization that called itself The Telepsychiatry Network, got a phone message, and left my name, asking them to schedule a visiting day for me. While that did not appear as an encouraging step, a lady distinguished herself as the specialist called me back 2 minutes later. “Do you want to get a marijuana permit?” she inquired. She said I could come over and also advised that the entire process could cost me $100.
I wound up heading to an alternate dispensary, the one in Berkeley, which a dear companion had suggested.
A guard in shades who was watching the parking garage check my permit and showed me to the buildings main entrance, where a secretary called the Telepsychiatry Network specialist to get verbal authorization– SOP requires “new patients” to set up their bonafides at dispensaries.
Fulfilled, the assistant gave me a long standing customer card, which would enable me to receive 2 welcome gifts which are a small pack of raspberry-flavored dark chocolates that were suffused with marijuana that is valued at $10, a cigarette lighter emblazoned with the cannabis-leaf logo of the shop. The card would also enable me to earn discounts on purchases.
The assistant showed me to the dispensary proper, a huge room just opposite the reception area. “Queue on the express line if you know exactly what you want,” she said. “But if you require counsel first before making purchases, go to the next line.”
I had dressed up and drove down here specifically for The Other Line and the tons of questions I have.
Back home, I found a spade and burrowed an opening 8 inches deep, and planted the champion in a spot in the garden that receives a lot of sun and was sensibly isolated. I think it is finally time I got the hang of becoming a marijuana farmer.
My Marijuana Plant and I. Part 2