Simply Put - The Legend of Rusty: Part 1
All art Courtesy of Rebekah Jenks
If Rusty were telling this story, he would swear he could fly.
Could he fly? No.
Did he fly through the air moments earlier? Yes - approximately eight feet.
It was a Grey flight with accents of brown and white and a fly-by-night
operator--The Barred Owl Express. Rusty had been wingtip-flipped by the Owl, who only had room for two on this twilight hunt. As runts go, Rusty was lucky to be one at that moment. Mom and his big brother, not so much. Squirrels did not go to Barredstown to vacation. Lucky for Rusty, the Owl had flipped him out of the drey to the end of a Hickory branch eight feet away. Yep, this Barred castaway had become an empty nester at the ripe old age of ten weeks.
Farther away, though not by much, ZMayor of Budsburg had been enjoying terpene-filled dreams.
Not now.
You see, ZMayor usually keeps an open window policy this time of year. This commotion had begun with “kuks” and then “quaas.” Squirrels kuk when scared while quaas are their freak-out shout-out.
At these sounds, HizSwiftness moved from bed to window like a bat out of hell. Ear placed firmly to the screen, listening for clues to the ruckus du jour. Deciphering decibels at 4 in the morning was his style. Tomorrow he would weed the Three Tree Bed from whence the cacophony came, and that bed was 50 feet from his bed. So, he was curious.
Typically, ZRanch mornings did not feature such commotion; however, with such a robust population of the Sciuridae (Rusty ZSquirrels family) and Strigidae (ZBarred Owl family) families, this stuff can happen. As ZMayor listened, the kuking brouhaha was escalating quickly to a quaasing pandemonium. The quaas soon hit a crescendo, then became an echo. Twilight pandemonium arrived and swiftly left on the Barred Owl Express. HizFarmerGrogginess went back to bed. His alarm clock was pissed.
Meanwhile, Rusty found himself out on a limb.
He had landed butt-facing west on this Hickory appendage. He would not sleep for hours. He squinted into the Budsburg sunrise. Squirrely zzzs would arrive later.
ZMayor had slept a few more hours post-twilight drey-raid, but his alarm clock was still pissed.
There was an anti-climatic tone to this morning’s chime. Nor did it help that HizUpAndAtEmness skipped his typical snooze and headed directly to the wardrobe. Today’s attire would include his Jack in the Box Budsburg Green long-sleeve, Holey Blue Jeans, and Raiders of the Lost Ark-like Fedora. It would be a busy day in Budsburg. He slipped into his flappy-toed dirt
white farmer athletic shoes.
After breakfast, vitamins and minerals were swallowed. Then it was Budsburg FastLadies’ turn for nutrients, hydration, and a clip of a fan leaf here and there. It was going to be a big weeding day. But first, a visit to those favorite weeds--The Ladies of Budsburg.
Generations ago, he was unanimously elected mayor, head of security, chief budtender, and the face of Budsburg--Home of 50,000 Friendly Tokes. In his acceptance speech, HizMayorShip vowed that ‘the Ladies of Budsburg would always come first.’
“Nutrients for all,” he announced as he approached his Budsburg constituents.
“Lovely pistils and perfume you’re wearing this morning.” After serving them their Cal-Mag smoothie, he would carefully trim a few leaves here and there as he complimented them on their
Awesomeness.
HizMayorShip had bred them for speed. Their genetics were born of his early Jamaicans of years past and sour diesel of recent years. The Jamaican seed had been given to him by a ganja farmer living outside of Negril, on a trip to Jamaica. The Diesel varietal was a gift from a former farmer--Tom, who ZMayor had met at a party a decade earlier. Tom had piloted a small aircraft years before that. The Illinois OG had landed that small aircraft in a remote field in Colorado in the 60s to rendezvous with a farmer friend and buyer in Colorado.
Unbeknownst to Tom, the 30 pounds of Alcapulco Gold and his aircraft had been radio-tagged in Mexico, so the DEA agents were awaiting his arrival. He spent five years in a Southern Illinois medium security prison. Tom was a close friend of ZMayor’s current wife. At a reunion, Tom brought a small matchbox containing 6 seeds. ZMayor discovered after the fact that they were a Diesel Varietal when the limbs were rubbery, and the twist of the flower produced an oily fragrance. A few crosses later, he named the new FastLady Diesel cross FTD. The T was for Tom.
HizStrainess still referred to his females as FastLadies. He appreciated their photoperiod finish. ZMayor nested these beauties on bright lights. They enjoyed a warm 80 degrees on the mat and were comfortable in their three-gallon habitat. They were in their happy place. ZMayor greeted them on this day, no doubt, the way he imagined thousands of OG’s everywhere would:
“Good morning, Ladies. Everybody fine?” He pretended their response was, “Yes, Mr. Mayor, and your bad self?”
“It’s all good here, Ladies. Your new pistils are lovely this morning. Keep growing the way you grow, and there will be a manicure in your future, I promise.” He reminded them that he popped on IWD--International Women’s Day in a blizzard, but they did not care about the farmer. They did enjoy the CO2 he exhaled in their midst. He knew they were giddy about the new 12/12 lighting schedule. “See you in twelve” he whispered as he flipped the light switch.
