My modus operandi was to acquire up at four thirty a.m., cod my bagged luncheon (three-bean salad) at the nutrient area, and then squash into a pickup motortruck truck with as many other flower people that would suit before heading for Nashville. We'd toke up a couple of modern times on the way, which caused mass confusion upon our reaching at the occupation sight, when we could happen it, as we all scrambled about trying to retrieve what the Hell we were supposed to make . . . or even where we were! Then person would announce, "Let's blend some cement," or some such as thing, and all of us, to the last hippie, would get mixing cement, owed to Virgin Mary Wonder's unbelievable suggestiveness. Once we got down to business, however, supervisors would get setting out lines and excavators would get doing their things, and we actually built better solar places than the State of Volunteer State — and cheaper!
Shortly after the "Four O'clock Vibes" (where everyone would go negative for a one-half hr or so), we would head back to the Farm arriving toward evening, sometime after six, covered in cement dust and soiled as law-breaking — and facing cold showers. The lone hot H2O in the house was engineered by our imaginative and inexpensive hippy solar H2O warmers — long lengths of achromatic hosiery draped all over the roof soaking up the sun's beams — but the women and children always had first shot at the small spot of hot H2O that the hosieries produced... and that was all right with me.
The local bulls tolerated our drive back and forth to Nashville, for unknown, charming reasons, and one late night, twelve of us, all very high and jammed into a bedraggled avant garde like sardines, were coming back after working a few years at our vegetarian eating house in Nashville. When we had to halt for gas, we establish ourselves faced with a dilemma. Actually, the quandary was behind us.
We pulled up to the pumps and parked, and the police force auto that was following our wildly careening van, unbeknownced to us, eased in directly behind the old avant garde with its high beams on. Our driver of course of study panicked. He couldn't just draw out; that would look suspicious, so he tried to look composed as he stumbled out of the avant garde looking for the gas tank. The two military officers slid out of their patrol auto and approached cautiously, with their custody on their weapons, pointing out the gas army tank to the our dazed driver and saying that everything was cool, and that they were just going to inquire a few questions.
Well, I thought it was all over for this clump of hippies. The bulls usually had no compassionateness for druggies, and when the driver dove back into the avant garde and rummaged through the baseball glove box looking for non-existent papers, mumbling that we would all have got to acquire out, I knew we were finished!
We obediently drop out of the avant garde as casually as we could, attempting to look square (hard to do), and trying desperately not to interrupt up laughing. We knew that if one of us would get laughing, it would all be over. So barbed our tongues, we all just stood there, lined up by the pumps with sheepish smiles — a assortment crew if there ever was one.
I overheard the female military officer mentioning that the plates were expired, which was a chronic job with our vehicles, and asking the driver if we were from the Farm. He confessed that we were, and pleaded that we were just trying to do it back home, and promised that we wouldn't do any problems. When she asked how our free ambulance service in New House Of York was doing, and about our work in Republic Of Guatemala where we were setting up soybean dairy farms to assist the mediocre folks down there acquire a small protein, I knew we were saved again!
Abruptly, the male military officer smiled and said that we had better be careful drive down to Summertown, and that we had better take attention of those expired plates. Then they just got in their police cruiser and left!
We all just looked at each other in amazement, and never did happen out whether they were good cops, or just going off-duty soon and didn't desire to procedure so many hippies. But either way, we all were spared some complications in our lives . . . for sure.
The eves at The Farm were mystical, filled with soft sounds of strumming guitars, laughing kids, and the unmistakable elusive wafting of marijuana. Marijuana was considered to be a spiritual sacrament on The Farm, as mescal have been to Indians for 10.000 years, and as a result, only certain authorised older flower people had entree to the supply which they shared out a few modern times a day. The truly disciplined are, of course, completely undisciplined, so the supply was usually plentiful.
To catch my early drive to Capital Of Tennessee most mornings, I was usually up before anybody else in the household, and unfortunately the first 1 in the kitchen; unfortunately because I had to confront the caches of roaches by myself. The whole topographic point would be crawling with them — large ones, babe 1s — all kinds, and all over the place. They were everywhere, under the stools and chairs, in the cooking pans and kitchen stove and in every crevice. It would look as if the whole top of the kitchen counter was moving.
We, of course, couldn't kill them, being pacificists and all, but the mas were concerned about their kids' wellness and continued to complain, as good mom's do. So one eventide we resignedly gathered around for our 5th cockroach meeting. We had tried everything conceivable of a peaceful nature; psychical trigons in every corner, sound vibrations, visualizing them gone, etc., but nil seemed to work — it was clip for drastic action.
After passing around a couple of joints, (it was against the regulations to smoke marihuana alone. That would be considered selfish and not at all spiritual) we decided that we had no pick but to get destroying the roaches. We would divvy up the dastardly feat of killing a expansive sum of one hundred a day, and appointed a ma to maintain track. We were required to turn in the dead small bodies.
That nighttime we all went to bed dreading the idea that tomorrow we would all go cold-blooded killers. Cockroaches were incredibly adroit when you took the clip to detect them closely, with their progress lookouts and the ways in which they communicated with each other. And with their legions, it was difficult not to detect them!
Early the adjacent morning, as I reluctantly prepared to kill my 3.7 roaches for the twenty-four hours and crept into the kitchen looking for the fly swatter, I couldn't believe what I saw...