Easter Sunday and the cannabis farmer

After four months in Ireland, my old BMW started right up upon returning to Milton.  Unfortunately every light on the dash board was lit up but it didn’t stop me from driving it.

I was invited to join my sister and and brother in law for Easter dinner  at a restaurant in Westport and thought it might be a good idea to have the car serviced before I went.

Drove it home and all was good to go.

Easter Sunday came and off I go and as I got to the Braintree split all the lights came on and I lost power.  The traffic was heavy and cars around me were not pleased with my car’s performance.

After an extended wait, AAA came and towed my car to the shop that just worked on it.  Once the car was dropped off I asked the driver to drop me off at a restaurant/bar in East Milton.

The restaurant was packed with well dressed families out for Easter dinner but no one was sitting at the bar.  After several beverages a guy comes in and sits next to me.  To say he was not dressed for Easter dinner would be kind.  I said hello and we started talking.  He had just left a restaurant on the next block because the bar tender was ignoring him and he suspected it was because of the way he was dressed.  A certain homeless look, you might say.

I asked him if he was new to the area and he said he was in Massachusetts for business and was renting a house in Stoughton.  He was commuting weekly from Northern California and every other week to Columbia.

And what business are you in I asked.  “Cannabis…I own a 24 acre farm in Northern California and came to Massachusetts to establish a base.”

Would you happen to have any with you now, I continued.  He then opened his jacket vest and he must have had 20 containers in individual pockets.  He picked one out and gave it to me and I said how much do I owe you.  Nothing… and we continued to drink.  

He came around to ask me what I did and I explained that I no longer worked and that most of my career was in the television business.  I added that I paint and attempt to play the fiddle on occasion .

The fiddle is 236 years old…check out my blog about it.

He  asked if I had any pictures of my paintings and I showed him what I had recently painted.  He pulled out a roll of cash and said he liked two and that he would give me $500.00 to hold them for him.  I said no, he should see them in person before he bought them. 



We continued to drink.

He gave me his cell phone number on a card and asked me to call him so that he could pick up and pay for the paintings.

We continued to drink.

I finally left him at the bar and stumbled home.  I was not used to walking that distance in cowboy boots.

The next morning got up and immediately looked for the card.  I must have ripped the house apart.  

No card, no money…no grass.

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