Nature’s Exotics
Stories of a family business
Copyright 1-6-2020 / 1,950 words
by Jon Kramer

Nonfiction. These events took place in Maryland in early1970s.

Part 2 – A Special Commission

One sparkling summer day in the early 1970s, into the Nature’s Exotics shop in Kensington came clomping a woman I’d never seen before. She was tall, dressed in a dark raggedy gothic outfit, with dismal makeup on a pale face. Her hair was a riot of schizophrenic wires exploding from her head. Her boots clanked as she walked. She reminded one of nothing less than the Bride of Frankenstein. But this wasn’t anywhere near Halloween nor was it April Fools and she was a potential customer, so I put aside the metaphors and attended to business. She was as serious as she looked.

I understand you cut and polish stones here?, she inquired. Yes, in fact we did. We taught stone cutting and polishing as part of our weekly course offerings in Lapidary Arts. Nature’s Exotics was, after all, basically a glorified rock shop, if nothing else. As such we needed to supplement our very modest monthly margin by offering classes.

Then I have a special commission for you, she announced, whereupon she produced a small jewelry box. Inside was a piece of clear plastic – acrylic it seemed – that had embedded in its center what appeared to be a distorted sesame seed. Can you cut and polish plastic? she asked. When I assured her we could, she described the size and shape she wanted in the final piece: it would ultimately be made into a necklace. For me to wear close to my heart, she said, sounding wistful. Obviously, there was some special meaning attached to the diminutive kernel herein plastic-trapped.

After we had negotiated the price, I asked her what it was. Surely this was not an unreasonable question – coming from the stone cutter who’d be slaving away on her trinket. Curiously, she was not forthcoming.

I might tell you later, she replied curtly as she turned and left.

That was definitely odd. What’s the big secret about this thing? Once she was gone, I got the magnifier and examined the piece. With its size and color, the specimen looked sorta like a shriveled-up marijuana seed. Well, that could certainly explain her actions – being none too eager to let a stranger in on the secret. At the time I was going to a military high school and was pretty clean-cut looking. She wasn’t about to tell a square like me what she was up to. Still, one pot seed? – big deal…

Even so, it seemed to me she was a bit over sensitized by the whole “war on drugs” campaign being touted by Tricky Dick Nixon who, ever the showman, had just declared “Drug abuse is Public Enemy Number One!” on national television. And, if it takes one to know one, then Nixon probably knew them all! He was famous for his raving alcoholism and prescription drug abuse, earning the epithet of “Drunk In Charge” by more than one leading publication of the day.

Add to that the fear-mongering message from the far right. Reefer Madness, the 1936 film whose sole premise was the slightest whiff of pot will destroy every aspect of your life, had made a recent come-back among the evangelicals and the far right. In an attempt to combat the decadence that was the post-Woodstock, Free Love generation, they had trotted out a new version of the film as a dire warning about the evils of hooch. Such guardians of family values as the minister Jerry Falwell and his Moral Majority were promoting the film as something of a documentary.

The latest theater screenings had, encouragingly, reported packed houses. What they didn’t report was the fact that nearly all the members of the audience were high as kites. The only reason any of them had signed up was to laugh uproariously at the film’s over-the-top campy melodrama while reveling in just the kind of drug partying it wailed against. As a result of this inverted popularity, Reefer Madness became a cult classic. It, along with Rocky Horror Picture Show, has been screened across the country as a midnight feature film ever since.

Eventually Falwell and his religious minions got the message and dropped the Reefer Madness program but kept up the holier-than-thou messaging of the Moral Majority, channeling it into politics. But the backslide had already begun – the popular tide had turned. On campus me and my friends wore helpful buttons proclaiming, “The Moral Majority is Neither!”. Finally, in the early eighties, the Moral Majority closed down for good. But I still have the button.

I wondered about the mystery of the seed. Maybe it was from her pot-head boyfriend who gave it to her after they smoked their first cosmic bowl together. Ah, yes, that was when it all began… Seems so long ago – she loves him so very deeply now. And to think it was simply a little sharing of weed – that seemingly innocuous act of passing the water bong at the party that blossomed into their first magical night together. And wasn’t he so cute when he realized at that first communion they had run out? This is all that’s left, he said with that smirking, boyish grin of his, holding up the empty baggie and tossing it into the air. As if from the heavens, it landed on her lap. In the purple haze of her semi-consciousness she examined the bag and noticed there was but one little seed inside… his seed. No, no, their seed! Impulsively she took the seed and kept it tucked away. Their love grew and grew. On occasion she’d take it out and look at it. As their relationship deepened, she attached more meaning to the seed and eventually got the idea to have it forever preserved. A friend at the Tech School was only too happy to encase it in acrylic. Once done, she carried that plastic chunk around with her everywhere. Yet, to be honest, there were times it was not so convenient to keep it close. Such as in yoga class or sitting behind him on the motorcycle. Then the thought came to her: why not make it into a pendant? That would be perfect. She could wear it all the time, hanging down inside the cleavage of her breasts next to her heart. He’d like that. So she came to our shop…

I looked again, more closely.

No, on second thought, it really didn’t look like a pot seed. It had the right color, sure, but the shape was all wrong. I was no expert, but I’d seen enough pot seeds in my time to recognize what probably wasn’t a pot seed. And this one had none of the bean-shaped characteristics of the pot seeds I’d seen, and by that time I’d seen plenty. No, this asymmetric crinkly ball had to be some other kind of seed – an old desiccated one for sure. It looked truly ancient. I had the faint recollection of seeing something like this before. Was it at the Smithsonian? Or maybe in an archeology class, or some journal….?

That’s when it dawned on me – What I was looking at was a plant seed from an ancient Native American site in the southwest! The Anasazi cliff-dwellers of the southwest were known to store seeds in granaries high up vertical walls. Sometimes archeologists find tiny amounts of organic material hidden in these ancient storage bins. Such finds are rare and highly important to science. In fact, governments the world over have set up seed banks with special atmospheric controls for preserving such ancient specimens, imploring all the world to conserve every last grain discovered in ancient ruins. It’s a truly noble crusade designed to save humanity from itself. No more Potato Famines!

But how did this gal – who most certainly did NOT appear, or act like, a person of science – with possible exception of the pseudo-science of Doctor Frankenstein – get ahold of one of those rarities? Did she somehow stumble upon a site herself? That seemed unlikely to the point of impossibility: she certainly did not look like much of an outdoors person, much less a hiker/climber who’d scour canyonlands of the southwest in search of artifacts or seeds.

If she had not found it herself then she must have gotten it clandestinely… Perhaps her boyfriend coped it off a guy he knew that was a pot hunter. You know, one of those grave robbers who plunder ancient sites in search of buried treasure. Despicable practice, to be sure. But we all now that’s what’s going on, since the government has scarce few resources to patrol such vast areas of desert wilderness. Hell, ancient seeds of all kinds were probably being marketed in the underground right now.

To that point, I supposed it could have come directly from the black market, bought through some nefarious network of dark occultists, this being way before the digital age. Either way, it was no-doubt illegal. No wonder she didn’t want me to know what it was! – she was afraid I’d call the police.

And I might have. Or more likely not. If I were to consider calling the cops, the immediate question would be: which cops? The state police? The FBI? The Bureau of Indian Affairs? I was stymied and that helped to quickly resolve the matter: no cops.

And really, it was none of my damned business anyway. Even if she had the very last heirloom seed of the most important staple of the Aztecs, it was none of my business. Oh yeah, it pissed me off to see such a rare treasure encased in plastic by some babbling buffoon, not to mention the fact this gal wanted to make it into jewelry! For the love of God, what the hell gets into such people?!

But, practically speaking, what was I supposed to do about it anyway? It’s not my business. Just shut your mouth Kramer, cut the damned thing, collect the money, and let her have her ridiculous idea of a pendant. She’ll leave and we can all move on with our lives, forgetting the whole sordid mess. No one would be the wiser, and life goes on – right?

Gritting my teeth, I cut the stupid thing the way she wanted it – into a tear drop shape with the seed in the middle. It was easy, actually. Plastic is far softer than just about any stone and it took a lot less time than I thought it would. That meant a few extra bucks for the week’s margin, something we always needed. A rock shop is no highway to riches, I can tell you.

I called and she returned a few days later. When I showed her the result, she was very pleased, picking it up and admiring it against her chest while looking in the mirror. This is great, she gushed. I love it! I packed the gem back into its little box and she paid me what was due. As she was about to leave, I decided to ask once more about the origin, using a little more tact than the first time:

This is certainly the most unique stone I’ve ever cut, I said genuinely. Where’d you come upon such an unusual seed? I may want one myself.

Oh, no, you definitely DON’T want one of these, she said, laughing. It’s a kidney stone! I had it removed a few months ago. I was sure I would die – the worst experience of my life!

Good thing I didn’t call the cops…

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