Chapter 23

Cora

Ya know ... holding that big ziplock full of dreams ... I missed my man.

Take that anyway you wish.

I laughed.

Chuck looked the question.

Back down the road a piece, there was a sort of a visitors center ... kinda. A wide spot with a pull off that made a turn or two and ended up in a parking lot.

There was a sign board commemorating the Show of Shows. It listed the bands ... some of whom I’d never heard of ... and some of the eventual greats; Santana, Hendricks, Grace Slick and the Airplane.

And people I’d never heard of.

God ... and I missed it ... I missed Hairy so much. I needed to mellow.

“Ok, Chuck. Fill your bowl.” I tossed him the bag.

Snatching it out of the air, he fished out a brass Proto pipe, the one with the swivel cap and a cleaner rod along side. Opening the bag ... and letting out the skunk again, he didn’t hesitate, sorting through the buds until he found the One.

It was red haired, tight and full of crystal. He looked it over carefully, sniffed it, tongued the bud to dampen it ... so it wouldn’t burn too fast ... adroitly packed it in the brass pipe. He handed it to me...

“Ladies first,” he said. Patting his pockets to find his BIC, he flicked it and held the fire to the pipe I had stuck in my mouth. I inhaled drawing in outside air to cool the hit as I packed my lungs with the fragrant smoke.

I passed the pipe.

Chuck hit it ... nowhere as hard as I did ... but sufficient. He was watching me. I let out a nearly invisible stream of air ... nothing wasted.

“Great hit, mom. As heavy as you hit it I expected coughing.”

“Hey ... no Bogarting ... pass the pipe.”

After a few rounds we reached the dottle ... no smoke. He took out the poker and cleaned the bowl, put the brass rod away and looked.

“Nope ... plenty, Chuck.”

Amazing ... pot had come so far. Prior to this my most memorable high had been when every body was out and Tim cleaned out his empty baggie collection.

Just the dust leftover from three years of madness. The dregs managed to fill the foil lined bowl of a miniature corncob pipe.

One hit and everything turned maroon. That hit was so powerful that nobody hit it again ... once was good enough.

What Chuck had was fringed with clear crystals of hardened THC.

Whoever had stashed his stuff in my shed missed it ... I’ll bet.

This wasn’t like the best ... what made it memorable was smoking it with my son. That and it was the first time in almost ten years. Did I get stoned? Oh yeah.

“Ditch it, Chuck.”

“Mom.”

“Walk over to the bushes and toss it ... not in the bag. We’ll drop that off when we gas up. Go on. The pipe too.”

Wonder of wonders ... he did it. That pipe cost 25 bucks ... at least the last one I bought in the ‘60’s did.

The next dreamer who passed by here would find a bud or two ... just from the smell. And they were welcome to it.

So ... we sat on the running boards of the Roller and watched the birds wheel in the sky and picked out clouds and named them. We were sitting calmly sipping water from a canteen when a 63 split window covered with hand painted swirls and flowers pulled up and the youngsters piled out. They were just kids ... and probably old enough to have been conceived during that fateful weekend in August of ‘69.

The parents ... two women and a single man ... sat in the front of the bus and watched.

“Whachadoin?” asked a pretty 11 year old.

“Watchin’ You?” Chuck said.

“Yeah. It’s peaceful here,” she said. “I’m China ... kin I sit with you?”

Of the few girls Chuck had met on the trip, China seemed the nicest ... well ... except for Amber. Amber was too old.

Chuck said, “Sure.” And he scooted over. “I’m Chuck.”

The other girls whispered between themselves and edged our way.

“Asia,” said one.

“Burma,” said the last.

“Triplets?” asked Chuck, as he stood and offered his place. The Roller is really long and the running boards likewise.

“No ... sisters.”

“Twins and a spare?”

“Yup,” said the twins.

Burma said, “Twin ... fraternal.” She sounded disgusted and pointed at the boy. “Brother.” The point was exceedingly off hand and dismissive.

The boy wandered over to the fence, probably drawn by the skunk smell. Chuck didn’t just cast his bounty to the winds ... he dumped it ... a pile.

The kid bent down and picked up a piece of brass and a piece of green and ran back to the bus.

Pretty soon the man stepped out and walked over ... ostensibly to read the sign but, he too picked up a bit of green. He waved at the women.

“Bring a bag,” he said.

“Here ... take mine,” I said and waved the bag.