Dad's Attic Potpourri - Part III

Need to catch up? Click to read Part I and Part II.

Leah's mom thought it was a dumb secret too. The plants might be hidden in the attic now, but he had been leaving his paraphernalia in plain sight for the past 23 years. Cleaning up – clues, or wet towels, or crumpled receipts, or dirty laundry - was not Al's strong suit; hence, neither was secrecy. Nor did he become more stealthy at harvest time. First, Al meticulously gathered his long-abandoned lab equipment: tongs for tiny bud clips, electronic balances for weighing crop yield, paper filters for rolling incense, test tubes for inhaling smoke to test aroma. Next, he commandeered the family kitchen for the drying operation – cookie sheets, oven, and all – with a wink and promise of brownies. Last, he left his gardening tools, scorched dishes, and trails of spilled potting soil strewn across every surface in the kitchen and dining room and trotted down to the basement to savor the smell of success. Very discreet.

She could have left his mess for him to ignore for the next three weeks, but she needed the kitchen back, friends from the PTA were coming over, and the uncleaned clutter would have driven her to madness in under 15 minutes. With a resigned sigh, “A kitchen should smell like cookies and soup, not burning pots!” Thalia the Tornado tore through his trash. Disaster area to Better Homes and Gardens in 19 seconds flat. At least he'd be blaring the stereo and dropping potato chip crumbs in the basement instead of the dining room for the next few hours. Al thought Thalia was an uptight neat-freak. Thalia thought he was chemically imbalanced. She didn't appreciate his unconventional genius. He didn't realize her tidying kept his habits clandestine.

Regardless of the futility of Al's secret, the attic was his Little Rascals' clubhouse now: “No girls allowed!” Leah and I tried a black-ops mission once to retrieve the naughty journal, but apparently we'd been no more covert than Al in our trips all these years. Go figure. So while he went subterranean to elevate his mental state, Leah and I had to find new ways to get high – and out from under Thalia's feet. Her dad filled his lungs with smoke; her mom turned us out into the backyard to fill ours with fresh air.

***

Sorry - really not trying to drag this out - the words just aren't flowing today. Maybe it's because I had a bout of insomnia last night. Wonder if I still have Leah's parents' home number? I bet Al has a potpourri blend that would help me chill out.