Purple Acres

Esther, my grandmother, God rest her soul, was a diva.

It’s where I get it from.

Dad told me a story about the Pennsylvania Game Commission and Esther Taylor.

Esther loved to garden. She grew absolutely every seed that fell between her thumb and middle finger.

Dad gave her some pot seeds and she planted them in her garden.

Nobody but family ever came to the farm, so Esther did what ever the hell she pleased on her land.

Dad said the plants were taller than her trailer. “She had at least two dozen of those plants,” informed my father.

One night she shot a deer from her trailer window and called the PA Game Commission and told them to come pick up the dead deer from her apple orchard.

Thankfully, Dad showed up for breakfast with his mom that morning. She made lovely pot omelettes.

“I called the Game Commission and told them to come get that dead deer from the orchard,” my grandmother joking informed Dad, stoned off her ass.

“Mom, you have pot growing in your garden. He is going to see it and you could go to jail.”

“Oh my gawd, Barry. Hurry up, go pull it out and hide it up in the barn.”

My father did as my grandmother ordered.

“What are those holes in the ground out here, Esther?” asked the game commissioner rather coldly.

“Weeds, really big weeds.”

“Do you want to show me where you put those weeds?”

“Oh, I burned them down in the dump,” proclaimed my grandmother as she harvested her first real cash crop.