I WAS FORTUNATE to grow up when parents held the reins loosely, so I spent my childhood in the woods surrounding Danville. One summer day, I happened upon several tidy rows of marijuana in the forest, planted, as it turned out, by an entrepreneurial teenager who lived in our town. Being a young Republican and excessively fond of the rule of law, I reported it to my father, who phoned the chief of police, Merle Funk, who came with a hoe, grubbed it out, and hauled it away. The next day, I kept watch from behind a tree until the scoundrel returned, saw his ruined crop, and dropped to his knees, devastated, like Tom Joad in The Grapes of Wrath.
I knew marijuana was evil because Mr. Younce, our gym…
