- Joined
- Apr 28, 2020
- Messages
- 907
- Reaction score
- 166
- Gender
- Male
- Political Leaning
- Undisclosed
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.
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.