My routine was to get up at four thirty a.m., collect my bagged lunch (three-bean salad) at the food area, and then squeeze into a pickup truck with as many other hippies that would fit before heading for Nashville. We’d toke up a couple of times on the way, which caused mass confusion upon our arrival at the job sight, when we could find it, as we all scrambled about trying to remember what the hell we were supposed to do . . . or even where we were! Then somebody would announce, “Let’s mix some cement,” or some such thing, and all of us, to the last hippie, would begin mixing cement, due to Mary Wonder’s incredible suggestiveness. Once we got down to business, however, supervisors would begin setting out lines and excavators would begin doing their things, and we actually built better solar homes than the State of Tennessee — and cheaper!
Shortly after the “Four O’clock Vibes” (where everyone would become negative for a half hour or so), we would head back to the Farm arriving toward evening, sometime after six, covered in cement dust and dirty as crime — and facing cold showers. The only hot water in the house was engineered by our ingenious and cheap hippie solar water heaters — long lengths of black hose draped all over the roof soaking up the sun’s rays — but the women and kids always had first shot at the little bit of hot water that the hoses produced... and that was okay with me.
The local cops tolerated our driving back and forth to Nashville, for unknown, magical reasons, and one late night, twelve of us, all very high and packed into a dilapidated van like sardines, were coming back after working a few days at our vegetarian restaurant in Nashville. When we had to stop for gas, we found ourselves faced with a dilemma. Actually, the dilemma was behind us.
We pulled up to the pumps and parked, and the police car that was following our wildly careening van, unbeknownced to us, eased in directly behind the old van with its high beams on. Our driver of course panicked. He couldn’t just pull out; that would look suspicious, so he tried to look composed as he stumbled out of the van looking for the gas tank. The two officers slid out of their patrol car and approached cautiously, with their hands on their weapons, pointing out the gas tank to the our dazed driver and saying that everything was cool, and that they were just going to ask a few questions.
Well, I thought it was all over for this bunch of hippies. The cops usually had no compassion for druggies, and when the driver dove back into the van and rummaged through the glove box looking for non-existent papers, mumbling that we would all have to get out, I knew we were finished!
We obediently fell out of the van as casually as we could, attempting to look square (hard to do), and trying desperately not to break up laughing. We knew that if one of us would begin laughing, it would all be over. So biting our tongues, we all just stood there, lined up by the pumps with sheepish grins — a motley crew if there ever was one.
I overheard the female officer mentioning that the plates were expired, which was a chronic problem 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 make it back home, and promised that we wouldn’t cause any problems. When she asked how our free ambulance service in New York was doing, and about our work in Guatemala where we were setting up soy dairies to help the poor folks down there get a little protein, I knew we were saved again!
Abruptly, the male officer smiled and said that we had better be careful driving down to Summertown, and that we had better take care of those expired plates. Then they just got in their cruiser and left!
We all just looked at each other in amazement, and never did find out whether they were good cops, or just going off-duty soon and didn’t want to process so many hippies. But either way, we all were spared some complications in our lives . . . for sure.
The evenings at The Farm were mystical, filled with soft sounds of strumming guitars, laughing kids, and the unmistakable subtle wafting of marijuana. Marijuana was considered to be a religious sacrament on The Farm, as peyote has been to Indians for 10.000 years, and as a result, only certain authorized elder hippies had access to the supply which they shared out a few times a day. The truly disciplined are, of course, completely undisciplined, so the supply was usually plentiful.
To catch my early ride to Nashville most mornings, I was usually up before anybody else in the household, and unfortunately the first one in the kitchen; unfortunately because I had to face the hoards of roaches by myself. The whole place would be crawling with them — big ones, baby ones — all kinds, and all over the place. They were everywhere, under the stools and chairs, in the pans and 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 pacifists and all, but the moms were concerned about their kids’ health and continued to complain, as good mom’s do. So one evening we resignedly gathered around for our fifth cockroach meeting. We had tried everything imaginable of a peaceful nature; psychic triangles in every corner, sound vibrations, visualizing them gone, etc., but nothing seemed to work — it was time for drastic action.
After passing around a couple of joints, (it was against the rules to smoke marijuana alone. That would be considered selfish and not at all spiritual) we decided that we had no choice but to begin destroying the roaches. We would divvy up the dastardly deed of killing a grand total of one hundred a day, and appointed a mom to keep track. We were required to turn in the dead little bodies.
That night we all went to bed dreading the thought that tomorrow we would all become cold-blooded killers. Cockroaches were incredibly clever when you took the time to observe them closely, with their advance scouts and the ways in which they communicated with each other. And with their legions, it was hard not to observe them!
Early the next morning, as I reluctantly prepared to kill my 3.7 roaches for the day and crept into the kitchen looking for the fly swatter, I couldn’t believe what I saw...
E. Raymond Rock of Fort Myers, Florida is cofounder and principal teacher at the Southwest Florida Insight Center, http://www.SouthwestFloridaInsightCenter.com His twenty-eight years of meditation experience has taken him across four continents, including two stopovers in Thailand where he practiced in the remote northeast forests as an ordained Theravada Buddhist monk. His book, A Year to Enlightenment (Career Press/New Page Books) is now available at major bookstores and online retailers. Visit http://www.AYearToEnlightenment.com
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