After leaving Millen and the girl with whom I thought I’d
get to spend more than twenty minutes, I headed for Athens and the University
of Georgia. I was a college graduate
with a degree in English. UGA had and
still does have a noted School of Journalism.
I thought I’d go see what the place was like.
It was a beautiful day as I headed north for Athens, and I
enjoyed my time on the road. I don’t
remember any of the rides I had that day, but I evidently didn’t wait long for
anyone because I was on campus by lunchtime.
First thing I did was pick up a map of campus and locate the J-School,
which just happened to have a cafeteria.
I have a soft spot for the state of Georgia. The history of the state is interesting for
many reasons. During my junior year in
high school I won an essay contest and a trip to Washington, D.C. The headquarters hotel where we stayed, all
900 of us soon-to-be high school seniors from 27 different states, presented me
with the largest gathering of my peers I had ever encountered. That’s where I had met my friend from Millen,
and it was the first time that I had a firsthand encounter with a real “Georgia
Peach.” I can still hear her, and any
Southern accent warms the cockles of my heart.
One of the things about the people there is that they’re
very friendly. I’ve never felt badly
that the girl only gave me a few minutes to talk after I’d come all that way to
see her. We wrote one another and talked
on the phone for almost five years before that trip! But…she was behind me now, and I was on
campus, standing in line at the cafeteria.
A couple of students in line with me immediately struck up a
conversation when they saw my pack, and they were really interested when I told
them where I was from and what I was doing there.
The three of us had lunch together and continued our
acquaintance. Although they were both
still undergrads, they were seniors; the boy was an English major, and his
girlfriend was in journalism. When lunch
was over, they offered me a place to stay if I wanted. They shared a house with some friends, and I
was welcome to stick around. I think it
might even have been Thursday or Friday with a weekend ahead.
It turned out that the “house” they shared was an antebellum
mansion about five blocks from campus.
Four…FOUR…stories AND a full
attic. I’m not sure I ever saw all the
rooms. Or met everyone who was living
there. I remember somewhere around 18 or
20 people at one point, but I have no idea if they were actual residents of the
house or, like me, passing through.
One of the reasons the place was so popular became apparent
the third night I was there. It was a
terrific house, well furnished; they had lots of food; I never needed anything
they didn’t have. I’d spent a couple of
days exploring the campus and just wandering around Athens. One guy loaned me his fairly new car to make
a trip to the countryside to look around.
The last night before I planned to head back to Missouri there was to be
a party. A couple of hours before dark—start
time—I asked one of the girls if I could help with anything to get ready for
the party. You know, carry a keg, set up
chairs, and she said, “You’re from farm country, right?” Strange question, but, yeah. I’d even worked two summers for a nursery. She grinned and beckoned me to follow.
I had stood across the street and looked at the house at
some point. You had to get far enough back
from it to see to the top of the place.
That’s when I counted floors and realized that the top wasn’t just the
roof peak but a full-on attic with even its own porch. My friend led me up several flights of stairs,
and I felt as if I was following Alice back up out of the rabbit hole.
Even in January it’s usually humid in Georgia. When I’m climbing stairs…a lot of stairs…I
tend to sweat, but I realized that the higher up we got, the warmer and wetter
the air became. It also started to smell
familiar. Kind of like some of the
out-of-the-way ditches around my hometown, or the laundry room at my college
some nights.
Finally we ran out of stairs. She gave me a curious look and opened a set
of double doors (to the attic, remember) and then parted a curtain of clear
plastic to reveal about a half acre of lush, green, fertilized, automatically
misted, blue lighted rows of marijuana.
Seems a couple of the guys in the house were ag majors. One was also a business major. I think there were a chemist and a botanist
in the bunch, too. Nice setup.
My friend needed a hand with some “pruning” and carrying
some bags to the basement. The drying
racks, cutters, baggers, and rollers were there. After cutting plants, bundling them up,
carrying the bundles downstairs, hanging them on racks, cutting and bagging
some “cured” product, and just breathing, I have to say I don’t remember if I
even got to the party. I do know I had
my answers as to how these kids paid for their educations, rented that house,
and lived in the manner to which they were apparently accustomed!
It was noon before I left the next day.
[I don’t think my sons read these, do they?]
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