The Truth

Having tried in vain since November to change it, or at least avoid it, I must now swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth:

I don't like being a stepmom.

Dad's Attic Potpourri - Big Finish

By Alex Valavanis (Flickr) [CC-BY-SA-2.0
(www.creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0)],
via Wikimedia Commons

Catch up before we conclude. Click the text for Part I, Part II, and Part III.

Outside, we replaced our bouquets of moldy attic flowers with handfuls of puffy dandelions, violets, and wild strawberries. We stuffed red dogwood berries into the gaps of pinecones to be sold at our make-believe market alongside home-made mudpies. We threw the dollies and ourselves into the hammock and thrashed about wildly, buffeted by imaginary storms on invisible seas. We gave her mom mini-heart attacks, shrieking as the hoards of tent caterpillars hidden in the grass squished their guts between our bare toes. We were high on life, but we still craved danger...and height. Being genetically-doomed to shortness does that to a person.

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.

Dad's Attic Potpourri - Part II

Missed the beginning? Read Part I here.

Leah's mom didn't seem to think her husband was such a brainiac either. This surprised us at first since she poured over boring wildflower books during camping trips instead of racing leaf boats with us. But she suffered from chronic vicarious-hypochondria, and she was losing the myriad of threats the attic posed to her children's health. She seemed to really enjoy warning us that we'd get frostbite, or cook our brains out, or suffer a brown recluse bite and subsequent expert medical-drowning in peroxide, or get sucked into the giant blades of the house fan. Now she was going to have to dream up all new child-health hazards to enhance her own immune system.