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I figured I should start with an enticing title. Yes, this is the first installment of the collection of nonfiction family stories.

It all started with the missing buckets. My father noticed that the large multi-gallon buckets were disappearing from the barn, the trailer out back, and the basement. Then it continued with bags emptied of soil left in the garbage. He got rather curious.

Who is becoming a little secretive green thumb during these long summer days, and where was the planting happening? What were they growing? He shrugged it off most nights, I mean if someone wants to plant something, what harm could possibly come from it? At dinner, he never brought it up. If someone wanted a secret hobby, who is he to make someone nervous about a new budding curiosity?

Anyways, I knew it wasn't me. I loved the outdoors, but planting and growing stuff wasn't my thing. Sunlight is my enemy. I really didn't care about the buckets or soil, until the one day.

The one day, I came home from working a long shift at the day camp to find numerous buckets on the picnic table. No plants, just several large buckets filled with dirt lined up in rows. That seemed odd to me.

I walked in the door and heard a commotion upstairs above me. Interesting.... I continued up the stairs in our sweet little ranch style home and into the very cluttered kitchen. The counters were an old pink laminate and the walls were a cream with subtle floral print and the floor had squares in goldenrod over a lighter yellow shade. A corded old styled wooden box type phone was on the wall next to some wooden cupboards surrounding the one half of the kitchen, while the other half has a corner shelf unit and mail stacked up all over the dining room table.

It was complete chaos. There were plants all over the counter and my mother was on the phone with someone and sounding concerned. Dad was shouting over the mess to me "Could you pass me another plant?!"

"The hell is this, Dad?" I am completely shocked.

"Pot?/Pot!" we said almost in unison.

I hand him another plant and he methodically shoves it into the blender, caps it, then lets it whir really loud over mom. Sitting beside that is a measuring cup that he periodically fills with water to saturate the goop in the mixer to make it a smooth creamy texture.

"How will this process help?" I shout over the noise.

He silently smirked, picked off the lid, then the pitcher off the blender base, and walked to the doorway. I followed to the bathroom and he tipped the pitcher over the toilet. "This is what we are doing tonight, until it's all gone." and then he flushed it with a look of complete satisfaction.

"So no calling the Sheriff?"

"No Sheriff. This was found on our property."

"Yes, but they wouldn't know who actually planted it. This is a house full of teenagers.”

He paused for a moment then shrugged, letting the pitcher drip a little on the floor, “I am almost done.”

A car pulled in the driveway and I could hear the guys talking loudly amongst themselves. One in particular, noticed the buckets and I could see the smile fade and a look of shock cross Harry’s face from where I was at the window as he left the car. Harry didn’t say anything more to his friends, just started zombie like walking into the house and his friends took off. Harry had only been in our home for about half a year. He wasn’t a foster child. He was a friend of my older brother and was having complicated issues with his family and we were usually a go-to crash landing for friends who fought with their parents. His stay was a bit extended longer than the typical weekend cool off break. He’s tall and thin, with short cut blond hair and blue eyes. Harry was one that could easily cross ranks between football and soccer with how he looked. He was both fast and quick witted.

“Hey dad, where did you find these?”

“Up in the back of the field.” He refers to the 4 acres beyond the house and shoved some more into the blender and pushed the button.

“Okay.”

I could hear the slow footsteps on the stairs. I’m going to guess that Harry’s slowly judging the sounds to estimate how angry a parent would be under these conditions and making his way up the stairs.

From where I sat, Dad looked so amused and committed to a task, while pouring a bit of water in on top. Mom is seriously considering contacting the school for a DARE group representative to make an appearance at the home the next day.

Everyone could hear the door open around the corner. I stifle a grin and watch the interaction. My mother asks where Harry has been. My father continues his work.
Harry answers my mother then asks where we found all of the plants.
“Up back of the field” Dad repeated again happily continuing. Absolutely no accusatory tone.
My mother, very clearly knows and my father is rather apathetic on the subject of who did it.

“That’s about a thousand dollars worth of weed.” He says flatly, somewhat baffled by what is happening.

“Probably.” Dad concurs as he carries the blender to the bathroom, yet again for the green slurry to go the way of the goldfish.

I’m personally trying to not laugh because my father is so laid back about it. On the tall teen’s face was a complete look of defeat. Harry knew there was no stopping the ridiculous mechanical process of eliminating what was now mostly swamp sludge taking the porcelain dive. It’s not really something that one would expect when walking into any home. My mother has had little to no contact with weed and was asking me what people do with it.
“Ma, I don’t smoke weed, so I don’t know what else people really do with it. It makes hemp, I think. I don’t know, whatever.”
“But does it make people crazy?” Mind you this is pre-bath salts, but post Reefer Madness ads.
“Nah Ma, I’ve seen stoners and they’re super chill. There are so many at school”
“This is why Papa sent you to Catholic school.”
“Yeah, probably that and the acid.”
“Acid?!”
“No mom, nobody takes acid at school. It’s a joke.”
“Not a good time for that. We have a kitchen full of pot!!”
Somebody down the hall laughed hard at that response. It was summer, so most of us were either staying out with friends or having home visits.
“I would have someone come, but we’re a foster home! This could end badly.”
All while saying this, Harry sits there in silence taking it in. No shouting directed at him, and an estimated thousand dollar loss for his summer labors. Rather depressing for any teen to fully grasp. He puts his head in his hands as my mother and I continue our exchange and Dad continues to pour the ooze down the shitter.