Ganja Mamas

Larabee Butte road is tucked away upon the acres of mountainous terrain, masked by treacherous landslides and entrenched gulches. It’s practically impossible to get up to it without a rugged vehicle or an airlift. The acreage is coveted by hoop houses, and masked in the valleys of larger pines with locked gates and chains. Gun shots ring through the air throughout the daylight hours even though all of it is pretty much federally illegal. Everyone is kind of in this hush, hush state of consciousness, even though the whole country knows what’s going on up there. The cabin was filled with dust and mothballs. If I were to tip the cabin over, over a million dollars worth of weed would fall out. The corridors in the cabin were filled with trash and boxes, piles of papers, and ganja roaches littered the floor. Seven men and zero females, other than the mamas, inhabited this place. As the first lady to arrive, my work was cut out for me. Not only was I to trim as much weed as I possibly can, I also needed to find nurturing ways to love up these boys, for they had been working the fields since March. This time in September, the weather was just starting to change again so there was an opportunity for me to come in and help be the light. I started to cook, to clean, to massage, and to oversee the production within the domestic realms of this operation. And then, just like the mamas, I began to feel like the more beautiful I made the place, the more I was taken advantage of. The boys made me feel like I should have this much energy anyway, because I am a woman, that I could handle it, and more. I, too, back lashed. There were times I couldn't even look them in the face because I felt like they mistreated everything that couldn't be put into a pipe.