Betty's (Little Basement) Garden

by Laurel Dewey

  Betty obliged and slowly walked him to her car, helping him get in the passenger side. “I’ll be right back. Gottta lock up the house and get my purse.”

  Racing back inside, Betty quickly shuttled the plates of chocolates back into the refrigerator and locked the doors. She wanted to be organized, so she quickly rummaged through Buddy’s wallet for his driver’s license and insurance card. That’s when she saw it. Folded neatly behind his license was an eight inch by three and one-half inch, red and white certificate. Buddy was a certified patient on the Colorado Medical Marijuana Registry. And he had no caregiver noted. Without skipping a beat, Betty grabbed one of her newly-formed chocolate creations, and factoring in Buddy’s large build, grabbed another one just to be sure.

  Back in the car, she handed one to him. “Have a chocolate, Buddy!”

  He ate it and didn’t seem to notice the odd herby taste.

  “When did you eat last?” she asked him, pulling out of her driveway.

  “Probably five hours ago,” he replied, wincing from pain in his lower back.

  Empty stomach, she surmised. That would speed up the effects. Halfway to the ER, she didn’t see Buddy pick up the remaining chocolate she’d set on the center console until he already had it in his mouth

  “These are good, Mrs. Craven! You’ve outdone yourself.”

  Betty continued driving and remained silent. Since he obviously was already using medical marijuana, she hoped he was used to it, and his weighty frame could handle the hefty two-teaspoon dose he’d ingested. In the waiting room, it was evident there would be at least an hour wait before he could see a doctor. Betty sat next to him, filling out his paperwork and observing him every few minutes for any sign of the cannabis kicking in. An hour passed, and then ninety minutes. They were told they could finally go into a room to wait for a doctor. She watched a nurse help Buddy into a wheelchair; it was obvious he was still in pain. Betty wasn’t sure what to think as she followed the nurse who wheeled him into a curtained area in the ER. With Buddy placed on a gurney, Betty sat in an uncomfortable chair next to him and waited. And she waited. And waited a bit more.

  She was just about to concede she had miscalculated how much cannabis cocoa butter to add to the chocolates when she looked over at Buddy again. He was staring at the ceiling, spellbound by a crack in the paint.

  “Did you ever really look at a crack in a ceiling? I mean, really look at it?”

  Betty observed him. “How’s the pain, Buddy?”

  He looked at her with a questionable expression. “It’s there…but it’s nothing like it was when we got here.” He looked around the area. “Damn, these lights are bright!”

  Betty moved her chair closer to the gurney and leaned in close to Buddy. “We need to talk.”

  ~~~

  By six o’clock that night, Betty was back home. And she had her very first patient on record. When she left Buddy at his apartment, he was still feeling the effects of the two chocolates he scarfed down, but after she prepared him a bowl of soup from a can – an act that rankled every fiber of Betty’s body – and propping him up in his bed, Buddy told her he actually felt better than he had in awhile. Fortunately nothing was broken, but the docs advised him to take a few days off. He told her he’d have a friend come by and get his work truck out of her driveway.

  Betty spent half an hour filling out the necessary paperwork for Buddy so she could become his caregiver. After a quick bite to eat, she checked on her three new additions to the family upstairs in her bedroom. They looked as cheerful as ever, and Betty would have sworn they’d already grown half an inch since she’d last seen them.

  Settling in behind her computer, she began the arduous task of researching the intricacies of setting up a grow room in one’s house. While some people converted a bedroom closet, she learned that having a dedicated room or area for the operation was the best idea. Basements were the most popular area, since they were separate from the main house and afforded the grower a better chance of being discreet.

  The deeper she delved into the intricacies of cannabis growing, the more she recognized that the entire process was developed and perfected by a dedicated group of anal-retentives. She would need two separate rooms, each one having plenty of air circulation, and a way to continually feed clean air inside and dirty air outside.

  The first room would be known as the “veg room.” This is where the clones would live, until they reached two to three feet in height. Temperature control was vital in the veg room in order to keep the plants healthy and free of opportunistic diseases. In fact, one website stressed that a temp of seventy-two to seventy-eight was optimal and needed to be controlled with any means possible, either heaters to warm it up or fans to cool it down. At night, sixty-two degrees was the magic number when the plants needed to cool down. Anything below fifty-five degrees could shock the cannabis, causing stunted growth or death.

  Special lighting was also required in the veg room. During the vegetative cycle, cannabis requires grow lights that put off a “spring” luminescence, which carries a slightly blue spectrum. Known as a “T5 light,” twelve small plants or four moderately large ones could fit beneath one of these babies. The clones had to stay under this set of lights for at least eighteen hours a day, with six hours of total darkness. However, if one needed to speed up the growth of the clones, one could up the ante to twenty-two or twenty-four hours of continuous light, or as a cannabis website called it, “the summer Alaskan method.”

  Cost was around two hundred fifty dollars for one set of lights, not including the metal stand needed to support it. That cost another hundred and fifty. Throw in the carbon air filters and fans, and Betty realized this was not just a simple little basement garden. In fact, the more she researched, the more she realized growing cannabis was an industry unto itself. While none of the websites actually stated they were there to support your medical grow, they might as well have had cannabis leaves strung across their webpages. With nutrients called “Bodacious Bud” and “Resin Revolution,” it was obvious one didn’t purchase these items to grow imposing petunias.

  The cost really accelerated when one needed to “flip” their vegetative plants into flower. That endeavor required an entirely different room, a grow light that put off a “bloom” radiance concentrated in the red/orange spectrum, more circulating air fans and an intake/outtake fan. For the lights, Betty could choose from four hundred up to one thousand watts. Based on what she read on a few cannabis forums, most growers obtained the best luck with the pricier-and-hotter thousand watt setups, since the bloom cycle of the plant’s life was dictated and triggered by light. And that light cycle was regimented – twelve hours of light and twelve hours of complete darkness. According to one forum’s “expert indoor grower,” if you altered that 12/12 cycle, as it was called, even by one New York minute, or had any light leaks shining into your bloom room during the dark, twelve-hour period, you could “confuse” the plant and create any number of problems. These problems included irregular bud growth, reduced resin output in the mature bud, seeds in the bud and just plain old slow development of the bud.

  The operative word here, as Betty quickly deduced, was bud. It was all about the bud. And the more she read, the more she realized a lot of people had spent a lot of time figuring out what type of light, nutrients, fertilizers and even music increased bud production. To say growing cannabis consumed people’s lives was putting it mildly. A grower named “Bud Professor” – no one on the forums used their true names – wrote, “Cannabis is not addictive, but growing it is highly addictive. You’re always trying to figure out the newest, best methods for growing exceptional herb.” Betty could relate to that statement. She didn’t cultivate a prize-winning garden and earn a wall full of plaques by following a predictable approach. Betty always sought out unique, organic enhancers to grow the biggest flowers possible. After reading a book years ago on farming in Colonial Jamestown, she experimented with burying a whole trout in each of several hole
s before transplanting a cluster of peonies. Of course, she did this using a flashlight at night to avoid being seen by the neighbors. When those peonies blossomed, they were enormous and almost looked fake. When Betty overheard one of the judges quip that, “something was fishy” about her entry, she smiled because she couldn’t disagree.

  After several hours combing the Web and taking copious notes, it was obvious to Betty that there was a thriving cottage industry of cannabis growers serving medical marijuana states. The industry had literally taken a lowly ditch weed and lifted it up into the echelon of a pampered diva. The more she read, the more she realized this extension of her gardening acumen could quickly take over her life.

  It could also take over her wallet as well. A one-thousand watt, bloom-grow light set up was a cool six hundred dollars. That would only serve six to eight moderately sized plants. The state allowed Betty three plants in vegetative growth and three plants in bloom, per patient. If she were able to get five patients – her maximum stable of legal patients under Colorado law – and included herself on the list for a total of six, she would need thirty-six plants, eighteen in veg and eighteen in bloom. And that would require a lot of light, a lot of patience, a lot of ingenuity, a lot of money and a whole lot of time.

  She sat back and felt an overwhelming wave of apprehension hit her squarely between the eyes. What had she gotten herself into, she wondered? Had she allowed herself to be taken down the cannabis path by Peyton, just as she allowed herself to be controlled by Frank all those years? This newfound venture certainly had the potential for colossal failure, not to mention the fact it had to be done surreptitiously, given her reputation and the way people viewed her. After all, she’d signed her name to that damn letter to the editor in favor of banning all this. What in the hell was she doing?

  She turned toward the window where her three new plants sat. The outside light was fading, and her mothering instinct kicked in. Gathering together several lamps and removing the shades, she circled them around the cannabis pots. It was then she noticed one of the leaves was drooping. Checking the soil, she was amazed how quickly it had dried. “Darling, you’re thirsty, aren’t you?” After giving them all a drink, she stood back and stroked the wide leaves. They didn’t call it “weed” for nothing; they looked just like something she’d yank out of her flowerbed. And yet, there was something magnificent about them too. She couldn’t put her finger on it. Perhaps it had something to do with what these plants would eventually transform into, laden with their sticky buds and exuding a provocative fragrance all their own. Right now, they were hiding their true potential, and all they needed was a patient, guiding hand that would allow them to become the majestic beauties that God intended. Yes, Betty realized, they needed her.

  Returning to her computer, she did a search for more instructional videos on cultivating cannabis. One of the videos featured “Doobie Douggie,” who apparently had his own Internet series that was more akin to several three-minute sermons. One was titled, “Did You Know?” and she clicked on it. There was Douggie sitting in his wheelchair, under the shade of an enormous outdoor cannabis plant in his backyard.

  “Did you know we all have cannabinoid receptors in our brains?” he said, pointing his finger at the camera. “We do! And here’s the thing: they can only be unlocked when the cannabinoids from the marijuana plant attach to them. So what does this tell us?” he asked, waving his hands in the air. He moved closer to the camera, almost distorting his face. “Is it possible we actually need the cannabinoids in marijuana to regulate our bodies, our moods and our sleep patterns? Could people possibly be suffering from a deficiency of cannabis?”

  “That’s crazy,” Betty mumbled.

  “Sound crazy?” Douggie quickly added.

  Betty checked herself. “Maybe.”

  “Well, it’s not crazy!” Douggie yelled. “I’ve seen again and again how small amounts of this plant, taken on a daily basis, can regulate one’s mood, appetite, energy and yeah, even the sex drive. And for all you greenies out there, I’m not talking about getting stoned! Far from it! Douggie is not about ‘gettin’ fucked up on the herb. Douggie is all about using this sacred plant responsibly and ethically, in the lowest dose possible.” He picked up a bowl of green oil and held it up to the screen. Dipping the tip of his finger into the oil, he slid it into his mouth and swallowed. “That’s all it takes, people! Just a few drops! It’s not just a medicine, it’s nectar from God’s own green hand!” He jabbed his finger at the camera. “Signing off now! And remember what Douggie says. Legalize the weed…It’s just a plant, man!”

  The screen faded to black and Betty was left staring at her computer in slight disbelief. Checking the time, she realized it was way past the dinner hour so she headed downstairs. A crêpe sounded just about right, so she whipped up the flour, egg and milk base and spooned it into a hot pan. Adding cheese and some leftover chicken, she folded it into a lovely, half moon of delight. Sitting at the kitchen table, she thought about what Douggie said in his video. It seemed to go against everything she’d believed. Could someone really have a cannabis deficiency that might be alleviated by ingesting a little cannabis oil daily? Halfway through her delectable crêpe, she got up and pulled out the chunk of cannabis-infused coconut oil from her freezer. Carefully slicing off a three-inch piece, she plopped it into a dish and melted it over a low flame.

  The phone rang. She checked the Caller ID. It read: Private. Betty hated it when callers did that and she almost didn’t answer, but then she wondered if it was Peyton or someone else she wouldn’t mind talking to.

  “Hello?”

  “Betty, it’s me.”

  It was Judi, and she didn’t sound like her usual, sparkling self. Betty returned to the stove to monitor the melting oil.

  “Hello, honey,” Betty replied.

  “Listen, I’m just going to come out and say this, okay?”

  Betty sensed something odd in Judi’s voice. Her tone was more aggressive, and she was slurring her words.

  “What’s wrong, Judi?” Betty stirred the oil with the tip of a toothpick.

  Judi let out a hard breath. “Something is different about you and we’re worried.”

  “Who’s worried? You and Roger?”

  “No, not Roger! Renée and I…and Helen, of course.”

  “Of course. There’s no need to be worried, Judi. I’m fine.”

  “You are acting different, honey,” Judi argued.

  Betty thought about it. “How?” She continued to stir the oil with the toothpick, making sure it didn’t burn the dish. “What do you see that concerns you?”

  Judi let out another tired breath. “I don’t know. You’re evasive with us. And you were rude to Tom Reed. That’s not like you, Betty. You’ve always gone out of your way to get along and be nice.”

  Betty stopped stirring the mixture momentarily. “Yes. I have. You’re quite right there.” The oil started to sizzle and she reduced the heat further. “Regarding Mr. Reed, the poor bastard thinks the sun comes up every morning just to hear him crow. That’s not someone I need in my life.”

  “Betty, he’s perfect for you! This is someone who could be an asset to you.”

  “What? Financially speaking?”

  There was sudden silence. “Well…yes…but companionship as well.”

  “Judi, how can I say this so you’ll understand? I’d rather shoot myself in the foot and run a marathon before I ever laid eyes on Mr. Reed again.”

  “This is exactly the attitude I’m talking about, Betty.”

  “What? Because I’m not doing what you’re asking me to do?”

  “Well…it’s not…yes. Yes, that’s exactly it! You need guidance right now, honey. I can sense you’re on a very slippery slope from all you’ve been through and as your friend, it’s my right to say that.”

  Betty stared at the melted oil in the dish. Using a dessert spoon, she removed a small amount and blew across it to cool it down. “How many glasses of wine have you
had tonight, Judi?”

  “What?”

  “You sound a bit tipsy, sweetie.” She wanted to say ‘drunk.’

  “I’m fine.”

  “Okay.” Betty dipped the tip of her pinky into the cooling oil and collected about five drops on her fingernail. Without hesitating, she licked it off. “I’ve got to get back to my dinner.”

  “Wait,” Judi urged. “Have you seriously forgotten what tomorrow is?”

  Betty stopped and thought. She was clueless. “No idea.”

  “Betty?” Judi chided in a sloppy tenor. “It’s Helen’s seventieth birthday!”

  Betty swallowed hard. “Oh, dear. I don’t have anything for her.”

  “She doesn’t need a damn present. But she does need your presence at La Bella Vita. I have the day off tomorrow, and we’re taking her to lunch there.”

  “I didn’t know Helen liked La Bella Vita.”

  “Sure she does. She adores it. And besides, every Friday they offer a free glass of the house red wine with every featured item. Can I count you in?”

  Betty surmised La Bella Vita was heaps better than the Pirate Landing. That post-memorial-service dining experience must have been a bust. Certainly poor Helen must have cringed when the scruffy server with a five o’clock shadow, a black patch over his eye and a plastic sword in his belt loop screamed “Ahoy Matey!” as he skimmed the greasy menus and peanuts across the table. She agreed to the lunch in Helen’s honor.

  “Oh, one more thing,” Judi added, taking a sip. “I’m helping with the fundraiser at the hospital for Roger, and I need to borrow that brocade tablecloth of yours. Can you bring it tomorrow?”

  Betty faltered. “It’s in a box in the attic.”

  “Can you get to it?”

  Now it was Betty’s turn to sigh quietly. “Sure.”

  After finishing her crêpe, Betty returned the coconut cannabis oil to the freezer. She washed the dishes and put them away before heading upstairs. Standing at the door to the attic, she lingered too long before opening it. She flicked on the light switch and slowly ascended the narrow, dusty stairs. When she reached the top, she stood in the semi-darkness, holding her breath. Frankie’s bed was still in the corner, as were his posters of the rushing Gunnison River and Mt. Evans in full, fall foliage. The place smelled dank and felt like a heavy heart still owned it. Finding the tall box, Betty quickly unpacked the brocade tablecloth.