"Oh. My. God." I say, my eyes glued to the newspaper.
"What's up?" replies my son L, who was nearby in the kitchen.
"Listen to this, I'll read it to you."
Acting on a tip, police in [area of Vancouver] found a 360 plant marijuana grow operation Tuesday. It was in the basement of a home in the [xxxx] block of [xxxx] Avenue.
"Holy shit, that's our block!" exclaims L.
"Actually, it's only four houses down. B and I saw all the police cars there Tuesday night, now I know why" I said.
L is quiet for a minute. "Hey Mom, remember that time last year when you came home early and said you smelled marijuana? And you blamed me and my friend Joe?"
I lower the paper and look at L with one eyebrow raised. I know where this is going. I'm sure you do too.
"Well, it must have been the people down the street."
"I smelled smoked marijuana, not the plant."
"Yah, but if they were growing it they must have been smoking it too."
"What, they broke into our house and went into your room to light up a fat one? And I suppose they must be the ones who once planted a pot plant in with my tomatoes?"
L grins at me. With the special, eyes sparkling, cheek dimpled smile he's had since babyhood. The one that makes me want to smother him with kisses, even when he has broken a vase. Or crunched the bumper of my car. Or committed an indictable offence.
Today's dream travel destination: Amsterdam, where my plant-loving neighbours would not have been busted, they would be pillars of the business community.
