As the snow melted and the ground thawed, the Farm’s womenfolk had gathered around the wood stove more than once for garden meetings, chattering excitedly about what they planned to grow and sow that coming summer. Some wanted to get chickens and horses, too. Maybe some goats. They wanted to turn George Mooney’s old cattle ranch into a real working farm.
Summer arrived. A lone woman with a shovel stood by the garden gate one Saturday morning waiting for her gal pals, but nobody showed up. Not then, or ever. George always felt it was an honor to allow folks the privilege of experiencing life on an old country farm, but so few ever did a damn thing to help out more than once. How he managed to cherry-pick the laziest of people averse to any sort of physical labor remained a running curiosity, and with Claire, he’d really hit bottom.
Claire was dumber than a box of rocks and so big she couldn’t jump to a conclusion – she weighed nearly three hundred pounds and had an obvious penchant for pot and pig fat. After she’d moved in, folks noticed that it wasn’t just her constant cooking smells permeating the Newerish side of the house: the lingering scent of marijuana now hung in the air as well, identified as “rank Spokanistan locoweed” by one of the other residents who emphatically plugged his nose in repulsion every time he walked into the house.
Complaints were made and a group message was sent out by George reminding everyone that this wasn’t Washington state. Pot was illegal in Idaho and therefore not permitted on the Farm. Claire denied any wrongdoing and told George she was only burning incense and sage while she did yoga. If Claire did yoga, then she must have been a master of Corpse Pose, sprawled in a lifeless state across her bed under a thick cloud of smoke, poised to do absolutely nothing.
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