Читать книгу Craig Lee's Kentucky Hemp Story - Joe Domino - Страница 7

Before taking my new baby on a joyride, our friends from Canada gave us a ring out of the blue. They invited the co-op members to attend Canada’s first big hemp field day. They planned to harvest the hemp field and have spectators cheer from the sidelines. This was a big deal because the co-op needed evidence that legal hemp fields were growing on North American soil. We hoped this evidence would sway Americans to pass similar hemp legislation like its northern neighbors had. And, for those few Americans in the know, the painful irony was that U.S. consumers were driving the demand for Canadian-grown hemp products.

Joe Stroebel was the intrepid Canadian farmer that had reached out and invited the co-op to attend this inaugural harvest. Mr. Stroebel, till this day, is heralded as one of the forefathers of the Canadian hemp industry. Although, for the majority of his life, Mr. Stroebel was a schoolteacher, he inherently knew outlawing a renewable commodity was bad business. With truth on his side, he successfully championed his pro-hemp, pro-farmer, and pro-trade point of view within Canada’s parliamentary government.

We promised Mr. Stroebel nothing would stop the Kentuckians from missing North America’s first industrial hemp harvest in over seventy-five years. This was a massive media opportunity and we had no intentions of missing it. The first Canadian hemp harvest directly impacted the growth of the hemp industry throughout the rest of the continent. The credit goes to Joe Stroebel for donating several Canadian hemp bales to support the KHGAC’sresearch and education efforts. These bales would be the first harvested hemp crop to reach the United Statesin a very long time.

There was one snag, though: the co-op couldn’t bring the bales over the border because, as U.S. citizens, we’d be committing a federal crime by internationally trafficking an illicit substance. A plan quickly formed: Joe Hickey and I coordinated a rendezvous with Joe Stroebel’s people at an undisclosed location on our side of the border. The U.S. government would have a harder time sending two law-abiding Canadian citizens to federal prison than incarcerating two bottom-of-the-barrel Kentuckians. Once the hemp was in our possession, on our side of the border, it was as legal as a bale of hay.

Like a rubik’s cube, the law never matched up with our point of view—no matter how many times we twisted and turned—we’d always be accused of being criminals. Being an American was embarrassing under U.S. law. The Canadians laughed behind our backs, knowing all too well that they were blessed with one hell of a running head start.

With the hemp bales securely in our possession, the co-op began seeing above and beyond the Daniel Boone Parktree line. The KHM&L Van’sdestiny had been paved: the mission was to deliver hemp stalk samples across the U.S. Anyone that wished to study industrial hemp’s unique material qualities got a visit. I personally met with university researchers, industry leaders, and interest groups who all wanted to get their hands on our stalks. Unless you were the rare-case Kentuckian farmer who had harvested hemp during WW2, virtually no one in America had seen processed hemp before these bales mysteriously arrived from over the northern border.

Very rarely did I ever go at it alone. Friends and co-op members, like Joe Hickey, would accompany me. Not because they felt they had to, but because they were as eager as I for an adventure. Armed with enough hemp to satisfy a nation, Joe and I tore the horizon by its seams. One of our stops was an industrial paper manufacturer in Atlanta, Georgia. Coincidentally, Atlanta was home to CNN media headquarters which also housed the Turner Foundation. Joe and I agreed we should drop in and thank the foundation for their benevolence.

Unfortunately, we had heedlessly given away all our hemp. We decided to pay a visit, anyhow, overcoming our city-driving angst. We weren’t interested in sightseeing; the plan was to beeline to the foundation’s floor and find our contact: Peter Belmuth. Our plan to get in and get out instantly hit a speed bump. Once through CNN’s revolving doors, we soon discovered one may never find their way out again. After checking with the front desk, Joe and I were told we must navigate through CNN’s massive corporate headquarters to reach the foundation’s floor. This was not exactly the beeline we had in mind; nevertheless, we thrived off new challenges.

The first obstacle before us was CNN’s magnificent first and second floor promenades: a complete indoor strip mall rivaling the nicest airport terminals. Eight floors above the promenade was Ted’s glass ceiling perimetered by evenly spaced CNNflags. The rigid red flags hovered above our heads like a celestial halo. The contours of the eight-story high atrium was lined with balcony offices that overlooked the ants on the promenade floors. Each office crawled with Ted’s worker bees that filled the corporate cavity with the buzz of busyness.

After my eyes adjusted to the sheer magnitude of my new environment, gravity lowered my eyes upon a monolithic globe perched on the second floor. The globe could be seen from every vantage. In order to reach the second floor, Joe and I ascended up the largest escalators I’d ever ridden on. While floating toward what felt like heaven, the promenade’s first floor revealed its titanic marble engravings. The engravings depicted an almost life-size map of the world. I pointed across Joe’s face at an invisible landmark near the sunglasses hut: “Lookie there, I can see Kentucky!”

Joe and I were beginning to feel that, somehow, someway, we were in over our heads. The impressive building stood as a testament to one man’s ability—a man who proclaimed that he set out early in life to become the world’s best businessman. I’m no expert in business, but I’m guessing Ted Turner got pretty close to achieving his life’s mission.

The escalators ushered us onward to the security checkpoint. The elevators to the foundation were behind guarded metal detectors. It was public knowledge that Ted worked from his top floor skyline executive office. Once through the security line, my palms began to sweat like it was my first day at school. Like an ill-prepared student, I wish I had crammed more. Joe and I didn’t know jack-squat about Ted Turner; all we knew was that Teddy had to be pretty cool to stroke us a twenty-thousand-dollar check without ever meeting us!

Once on the Turner Foundation plateau, the representatives were excited to hear about our progress. Since the meeting was scheduled on a whim, we left after a brief exchange and a promise that we’d return soon with more hemp samples. The foundation’s warm reception encouraged us to stay on the path we were on. We felt reassured that we must be doing something right if top-brass people could see eye-to-eye with a couple of renegades. I pinched my goosebumps after the elevator doors closed behind us. But our trip wasn’t quite over.

When Joe and I walked back through security, one of the guards stopped us and asked where we came from. I guess it was obvious we weren’t Atlanteans. I told him, “Lebanon, in Marion County, Kentucky.” Gee-golly, the guard was from Marion County too! He grew up not far from where I lived and knew all the same spots. It was a heartwarming encounter so far from home. Since security was slow, we stuck around and talked with our new friend. It’s always nice to kick the can with Kentuckian kin. Our rapport with him was instant. We said our farewells and hit the road again, feeling good about the visit.