Blog

So back in the day in Southern Humboldt we were under attack every year from around June through the end of October. They came from the sky, dropped in from lines on helicopters where they dangled to find our hidden gardens, and flew so low the tree tops would bend back to reveal anything that might be hiding under the branches. They also cruised the streets, backroads, and even bars and restaurants, listening and looking for “dirty dope growers.” Many people chose not to grow on their own land for very good reason. Our neighbors were one of those that risked it and paid the price, as they found themselves in their home while SWAT broke down the door, zip-tied their hands together, including the children who were around 9 and 7 years old, and ransacked their house, stealing some shotguns that had been passed down for generations and the couple thousand dollars that was stashed under the bed. All for the twenty or so weed plants that were scattered throughout the veggie garden.

My family didn’t grow at home, but guerrilla gardening ran strong in our blood. There was always weed around the house and in fact there was the pot drawer right next to the candy drawer in our kitchen. (Needless to say, my house was one of the favored for hanging out in and throwing ragers as a teen.) I figured out pretty quickly what the ganja seeds looked like, and one late summer at the age of about 13, I decided it was far time I grew my own. So sometime in the month of September I took a couple dozen 4” pots and set up a little grow on my back deck where my parents never went by. I watered those little pots every other day or so and watched with joy and glee as the little buggers sprouted and grew. Mind you, I had no clue about how to actually grow weed at the time, and my parents didn’t know I’d taken a keen interest in this plant. Around October first I delighted in the things I saw happening; some of the plants had what I recognized as the same buds that were in that infamous drawer and others had beautiful little blossoms that were strikingly different. I began to realize around this time that perhaps I was missing something, as there was no way that those little three inch tall plants with a dime sized bud or a dangling bunch of male flowers could be the same as what my parents did. At the end of the month I ended up with about two handfuls of rocky nugs filled with immature seeds…..and I was hooked. My first harvest as a weed grower was by all standards today a total failure and yet I couldn’t have been more curious and delighted at how each little plant was so different from the others, and how fascinating it had been to grow them all by myself and loose not one to any pests, rodents, bugs, slugs, or disease. I knew there was a lot more to learn and as soon as I was a little older I knew exactly who to ask. Until that time, I always had my back deck and a few four inch pots to play around with.
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Wendy Kornberg