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My farmer son

bricklayer

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Please bear with an old man as he brags about his pot farmer son. My son is thirty five years old. He's been a legally licensed medical pot farmer for years, but he recently got his recreational grow license. He has spent years and years and countless thousands of dollars going legal. I am very proud of him. He could have stayed black market and lived a luxurious life, but he went the extra mile.

Even when the interstate barriers come down and the large corporate interests buy up businesses like my son's, they will still need people like him. People like my son are as rare a fine wine makers or brewers or distillers.

It seems so strange to be able to talk about my son's profession openly. Perhaps my favorite part of his choice to go legal is that old men love to brag about their sons, and now I can join in.

Sometimes I'll mess with people when they ask what my son does. It usually goes like this:
What's your boy do?
He's a farmer.
Around here?
No. In Oregon, on Mount Hood.
(That's when they get a clue, but I continue to act clueless)
What's he grow on a mountain in Oregon?
I don't know, but I don't think that he's very good at it.
Why's that?
Well, the last time he was in town, I overheard him talking with his business partner on the phone about their harvest. From what I could hear, all they got was a couple of hundred pounds of weed. I'm no farmer, but if they don't get those weeds under control, I don't think they're going to make it.
(That's when they look at me like I'm the dumbest person they ever met.)

I'm proud of you, Levi. You're an honorable man.
 
Please bear with an old man as he brags about his pot farmer son. My son is thirty five years old. He's been a legally licensed medical pot farmer for years, but he recently got his recreational grow license. He has spent years and years and countless thousands of dollars going legal. I am very proud of him. He could have stayed black market and lived a luxurious life, but he went the extra mile.

Even when the interstate barriers come down and the large corporate interests buy up businesses like my son's, they will still need people like him. People like my son are as rare a fine wine makers or brewers or distillers.

It seems so strange to be able to talk about my son's profession openly. Perhaps my favorite part of his choice to go legal is that old men love to brag about their sons, and now I can join in.

Sometimes I'll mess with people when they ask what my son does. It usually goes like this:
What's your boy do?
He's a farmer.
Around here?
No. In Oregon, on Mount Hood.
(That's when they get a clue, but I continue to act clueless)
What's he grow on a mountain in Oregon?
I don't know, but I don't think that he's very good at it.
Why's that?
Well, the last time he was in town, I overheard him talking with his business partner on the phone about their harvest. From what I could hear, all they got was a couple of hundred pounds of weed. I'm no farmer, but if they don't get those weeds under control, I don't think they're going to make it.
(That's when they look at me like I'm the dumbest person they ever met.)

I'm proud of you, Levi. You're an honorable man.

As someone who has dabbled in closet, and basement gardening I can say you are absolutely correct, it's not like growing carrots, it's a rare skill set...
 
As someone who has dabbled in closet, and basement gardening I can say you are absolutely correct, it's not like growing carrots, it's a rare skill set...

You should come out of the closet...
 
Please bear with an old man as he brags about his pot farmer son. My son is thirty five years old. He's been a legally licensed medical pot farmer for years, but he recently got his recreational grow license. He has spent years and years and countless thousands of dollars going legal. I am very proud of him. He could have stayed black market and lived a luxurious life, but he went the extra mile.

Even when the interstate barriers come down and the large corporate interests buy up businesses like my son's, they will still need people like him. People like my son are as rare a fine wine makers or brewers or distillers.

It seems so strange to be able to talk about my son's profession openly. Perhaps my favorite part of his choice to go legal is that old men love to brag about their sons, and now I can join in.

Sometimes I'll mess with people when they ask what my son does. It usually goes like this:
What's your boy do?
He's a farmer.
Around here?
No. In Oregon, on Mount Hood.
(That's when they get a clue, but I continue to act clueless)
What's he grow on a mountain in Oregon?
I don't know, but I don't think that he's very good at it.
Why's that?
Well, the last time he was in town, I overheard him talking with his business partner on the phone about their harvest. From what I could hear, all they got was a couple of hundred pounds of weed. I'm no farmer, but if they don't get those weeds under control, I don't think they're going to make it.
(That's when they look at me like I'm the dumbest person they ever met.)

I'm proud of you, Levi. You're an honorable man.

I used to live on Mt. Hood - the town of Zigzag. How ironic !
 
Levi's in Welches

Howdy neighbor! Left in 1976; nothing was there back then. Some family still in The Dalles.

I saw a 5 gallon bucket full of 'shrooms there once. That's the next cash 'crop' considering Denver and Oakland.
 
Please bear with an old man as he brags about his pot farmer son. My son is thirty five years old. He's been a legally licensed medical pot farmer for years, but he recently got his recreational grow license. He has spent years and years and countless thousands of dollars going legal. I am very proud of him. He could have stayed black market and lived a luxurious life, but he went the extra mile.

Even when the interstate barriers come down and the large corporate interests buy up businesses like my son's, they will still need people like him. People like my son are as rare a fine wine makers or brewers or distillers.

It seems so strange to be able to talk about my son's profession openly. Perhaps my favorite part of his choice to go legal is that old men love to brag about their sons, and now I can join in.

Sometimes I'll mess with people when they ask what my son does. It usually goes like this:
What's your boy do?
He's a farmer.
Around here?
No. In Oregon, on Mount Hood.
(That's when they get a clue, but I continue to act clueless)
What's he grow on a mountain in Oregon?
I don't know, but I don't think that he's very good at it.
Why's that?
Well, the last time he was in town, I overheard him talking with his business partner on the phone about their harvest. From what I could hear, all they got was a couple of hundred pounds of weed. I'm no farmer, but if they don't get those weeds under control, I don't think they're going to make it.
(That's when they look at me like I'm the dumbest person they ever met.)

I'm proud of you, Levi. You're an honorable man.

Congratulations to your son! We have grown indoors here for years (some legal, some not) in CO. I'm looking forward to a day when, if we can't find strains we're looking for locally, we can buy online, across different states. I assume your son's grow is wholesale?
 
Congratulations to your son! We have grown indoors here for years (some legal, some not) in CO. I'm looking forward to a day when, if we can't find strains we're looking for locally, we can buy online, across different states. I assume your son's grow is wholesale?

It is. He sells to the shops. The regulation of the strains is very tightly controlled.
 
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