Craig - Gone to Pot

Praise for Gone to Pot :

Jess is the feisty, funny, opinionated, cant-keep-her-down-for-long crone we all hope to become. In this rollicking tale of desperate ingenuity, Jess shows us that youre never too old to grow.

Anne DeGrace, author of Flying with Amelia

Jennifer Craigs Jess is a lot like her; a wicked Yorkshire lass whose pluck and humor pack trouble into an old kit bag, and this time the bag is bursting with green. Survival of an old crone at her best.

Rita Moir, author of The Third Crop

When the going gets tough, the tough get growing. In Jess, the unsinkable centerpiece o f Gone to Pot , Jennifer Craig has given us a mother, grandmother, friend, and citizen who is memorable for her humor, resilience, practicality, and irreverence, to say nothing of her green thumb and dab hand with grow lights. Its a funny novel, and a tender one, that will make you think twice about the possibilities of your basement and will also make you want to visit Nelson, the jewel of the Kootenays, which is lovingly described. I hope well hear more about Jess and her gang. She wont be going gentle any time soon into any good night, thats for sure.

Bill Richardson, author of The First Little Bastard

to Call Me Gramps: Poems of the Late Middle Ages

Bloody hell , Ive gone and done it now. I lay in a crumpled heap between a thicket of flower pots, my head cushioned in a marijuana plant, staring up into a 1000-watt light bulb. I struggled to get up. My loose shirt had caught in the pallet that supported the potsand now me. The more I struggled the tighter the shirt pulled around my throat. Was this to be my end? Either throttled by a shirt or roasted to a crisp by a grow light?

How did I get into this mess? Two things started it: the fire at the Grizzly Grill; and news of the stock market slump. Crash and burn is how my troubles began.

My workplace, the Grizzly Grill on Baker Street, was within walking distance of my house. I enjoyed the walk down the tree-lined street, past the lovely old stone church, but that day everything was graythe grass, the bushes, the treesall coated with winter gravel and dust. Patches of ice still lingered ready to topple the unwary. How nice it would be to get out of Nelson, to go somewhere warm with palm trees and greenery, to lie in a deck chair with nothing to worry about. But holidays were not for me. Not then. Not ever.

A fire truck sirened past me. Nearly deafened me, it did. Mind you, with the fire hall just round the corner and the hospital just up the road, hearing sirens where I lived was not unusual. People came out of their houses and began running down the hill. Like a fool I joined them. Why? I dont usually follow the herd or run on an icy path, or even a clear path, for that matter.

Then I saw the smoke. A huge ball of black poured out from somewhere on Baker Street and rolled upward and toward us. I ran faster.

Next thing I was sprawled on the sidewalk. Daft bugger, you should know better than to try to run at all, let alone downhill. A couple of youngsters helped me up and I sat on a wall to get my breath and assess the damage. The young man with his baseball cap on backwards kneeled down to look at my leg. We rolled up my pant leg and watched the knee swell.

Ill be okay, I told him. Ill just sit a minute. You go ahead.

Youre sure?

I nodded. He stood up to leave, walked a few steps and then turned to call out, Your skateboards under that car.

A good laugh always helps. My gammy knee stiffened up and let me know it was having none of it. One grazed hand dropped blood on the sidewalk. I found a tissue in my apron, pressed it on the graze, and then stood up. My pants were covered in gravel. Would it be better to go to work like that or go back home to change and be late? I dithered for a minute and then carried on.

Limping, I managed to reach the back of the crowd standing in silence at a police barrier. I watched the Grizzly Grill go up in flames from a safe distance. There go my comfy loafers that I got from the thrift shop for five bucks. I would be on the dole nowat my agebut I fretted more over those loafers than my future. They didnt pinch my bunions like my other shoes.

Dense smoke made it difficult to see where it was coming from. The smell was terrible, like singed hair, and a roaring noise, like a waterfall, filled the street. The fire truck had its ladder up and from it a firefighter directed a jet of water into the smoke. He looked so tiny in his yellow uniform and helmet standing on top of the ladder, like the toy I gave my grandson.

Im not a gawker and my knee hurt, so I began to push my way out of the crowd. Hey, Jess, I heard someone say. I turned to see Swan, another waitress at the Grill. Looks like were out of work.

Has it completely gone? I asked her. What happened?

Word on Twitter that it started in the basement. Swan looked up from her cell phone. Electrical they think.

Thank goodness it wasnt open yet, I said. So no one but Joe would be there. Joe was our cook and he would have started work earlier, setting up the kitchen and prepping food and all that. Is he all right?

Dunno. I just got here. Swan looked at me briefly through her heavy mascara as she continued to text.

I might as well go home. But Ill wait until I know if Joe is okay. I turned around. I have to sit down. I fell and my knee is killing me.

Go sit on that bench. Ill see if I can find Joe. Swan helped me to one of the benches set in an alcove of low, stone walls. Back in a flash.

Swan had only been on the job about three weeks and was still wet behind the ears. She was a bit daftsashaying around the Grill like a princess, standing beside a customers table with one hip stuck out as if she needed a replacement. She could never remember what the specials were. Waitressing doesnt give much time for conversation, so I didnt know her very well.

I sat, with my knee throbbing, and watched the backs of people all staring at the fire and the firefighters. A policeman in a yellow jacket and bicycle helmet held the crowd behind a barricade and another manned the next junction directing traffic. An ambulance parked on the cross street didnt seem to be busy, thank goodness.

One section of the crowd stopped staring down the street as its attention turned to a heavily built woman made even bulkier by a puffy black jacket crowned with a felt fedora-style hat. She waved her arms and shouted, Behold, the Lord has visited this fire upon you because of your sinful natures. Repent! Repent now before the whole town burns. Turn to Jesus for redemption. Find your path back to

She stopped yelling as a young woman in a red toque shook her fist at her. Shut up you righteous nutcase. Go back to your cage.

The proselyte took a couple of steps toward Red Toque and pointed her finger. Sinner, she shouted, repent your evil ways before the town burns before your eyes!

I cheered for Red Toque as the two women faced off. Jesus freaks always got up my nose with their holier-than-thou attitude. The policeman with the bicycle approached them. I couldnt hear what they were saying, but there was a lot of arm waving before Fedora Hat strode away up the hill, her challenger rejoined the crowd, and the policeman returned to his position.

A tall, gangly young man suddenly appeared and came over to sit on my bench. He didnt look at me as he plonked himself down, sat with splayed legs, and stared into space with the kind of dark brown eyes you see in Middle Eastern men. Although he wore a black toque, the sort thats associated with bank robbers, he wasnt at all threatening. In fact, he seemed quite gentle with his one earring and one of those little bits of beard they call a soul patch.