It couldn’t have been much more than two weeks after the basket caper before the infamous stupidimenters, Doug and Rick, were on to bigger and better ideas. They decided to become herb horticulturists. They sprouted a farm of sorts under the eave of the house which ran parallel to their bedroom wall that faced the front of the house where the slope of the roof ran outside. This was not your normal little pasture by any standard. This was one secret little garden, requiring the skills of a Nebraskan navy seal to reach and cultivate.
It lay beyond the unfinished attic area just off the laboratory (a.k.a., the third floor bedroom). A crouch to the left, then another left, and finally a six foot crawl through a two-foot high by two-foot wide, right-angle triangular tunnel would get any kid there in a jiffy. An adult, impossible. Not exactly the yellow brick road. Once through, there it was, a larger five-foot high by five-foot wide by fifteen-foot long room whose slanted rafter and frame ceiling sliced across from top to bottom—shingle nails exposed for the occasional skull puncture.
For years it had been a useful retreat for recharging crushed youthful spirit after particularly harsh and unjust parental decisions were meted out. But those days were long gone. Now it seemed more fit to be a pasture.
Once mapped out by mastermind Doug, it was time for the green thumb boys to get to work. The two upstart 4Hers toiled with their crops long and hard, hovering over each seedling like proud new parents, nurturing their babies into mature, splendid young ferns. Green, lush and bountiful.
Every night as the sun dropped from the orange sky, they unraveled the string of extension cords tucked under their mattresses. They plugged one end into the lone, life blood socket in their bedroom, laying the chain of cords out to reach the potted plants. At the other end they plugged an assortment of four confiscated lamps, shining warm, welcomed light on the shrubs. Sometimes they'd even leave the lights on during the day when conditions were ripe, like when mom was working and the risk of discovery small. When the sun rose bright and the milk truck roostered the start of a new day with the crowing of its screeching brakes, Doug and Rick just as carefully retrieved the extension chords and hid them away for safe keeping.
Their attention to detail and fastidious caretaking were eventually rewarded with as fine a crop of Mexican Gold as ever was grown under the rooftop of a New Jersey, suburban home. With the anticipated reaping of their harvest just a scant few days away, the boys were soon to become the new modern farmers of the local hippy underground.
How they escaped discovery still eludes me though. As a rather renowned squealer, I was more than up to the task of figuring this out. I mean the hints were all there for the spying. The sudden disappearance of my desk top lamp, an official Man From Uncle, two-switch, 75 watt beauty. The notable shortage of extension chords and novel new wiring of various household electronics. And finally, the perplexing interest these two dazzling teen suburbanites took in soil water retention and drainage strategies.
Well, to their credit, it truly was a wonderful stupidiment for some time. But like all things dumb for Doug and Rick, something unexpected inevitably revealed them. This would prove to be no different.
As usual, leaving details in Rick’s untested hands was when the whole operation took a sudden turn for the worse. It was a normal Saturday morning. Doug was hijacked early by dad for his quarterly haircut battle, leaving Rick in charge of unplugging the lights before going up to the park to hang out for the day. This required that in addition to unplugging he also took care of the hiding. Apparently, it was the hiding part that proved to be too formidable a task for Rick. He left the unplugged string of cords sitting there, weaving a snaky trail to the promise land—exposing the whole kit and caboodle to discovery by anyone who might stumble by.
By then, mom had become a notorious stumble-byer. Ever since the basket of cheer episode and a few follow-up cigarette mishaps, she had morphed into a round-the-clock, super sentinel with a nose for teen trouble. She had to. She had no option. As part of the “new” mom, she employed sudden bedroom inspections and hallway shakedowns.
This was such a day.
It didn’t take long before mom stumbled by.
Spotting the unplugged extension, her eyes followed the thick beige line until it attached to the next cord, a dark brown contrast. It continued on until it inched under the attic door. She opened the door. The house heaved the stale breath of warm, moth-ball, storage air. She followed the string in hot pursuit, letting it slip through her gentle grip as it slid along. It turned tightly to the left and around the corner. She moved the trunks that acted as a barrier, a rather poor impediment at that. She crouched to see the now white cord fade into the darkness beyond the shadows of the eave entrance. She sat back on the floor. “What in God’s name are they up to,” she wondered.
She pulled herself up and went back into the bedroom to cool down and regroup a bit. That is when she plugged the extension cord in and returned to the entrance. She crouched down to poke her head into the tunnel. She could see the brightness. “What are those? I don’t believe it. Why those gab dab no gob ...” This is approximately when she began speaking in tongues.
Mom was many things, but a navy seal she was not. She was determined though. And when mom was determined, well, the unimaginable occurred. She got down on her belly and inched through the 2 by 2 opening—the occasional bite of a shingle nail reminding her to keep her head and butt down. She made it, sweaty and a bit disheveled, but she got in there all the same. In fact, she would leave and return several times that fateful morning, clearing brush like George W. at his Crawford ranch. And once completed, she sealed up the field of dreams tighter than an abandoned Scranton mine shaft.
As hot a summer day it was, she sure was frosted. No two ways about it. In a mom instant, she decided the stupidimentors were moving downstairs into my bedroom and I was being promoted to the third floor. As usual, I was the first to feel the swift slice of her sword. It all happened so suddenly. I wasn’t more than two steps in the front door, when her interrogation began.
“So tell me young man what do you know about the crops!” she inquired, her eyes icy steel, her nostrils flaring.
Now if I knew anything, I knew that “young man” was not the kind of salutation that promised good things. I was cautious in my answers.
“Umm, what crops?”
“You mean to tell me mister you don’t know about the little gardening project in the attic?”
Oh baby! “MISTER”! I hadn’t heard that since the Popoff affair, and that was ten years ago. This was going to require a very careful repartee.
“What are you talking about ma?” Repartee was not my strong suit.
“You know! THE POT PLANTS!”
“What pot plants?” I was grabbing at straws, while I tried to piece together what the hell she was talking about. It sounded like the kind of gibberish I might hear from my great uncle Dukie. But he was 118 if he was a day. And he always had foam about the toothless gums like a rabid possum. This was mom. She was apparently crazed over something.
“Someone has been growing pot in the attic!”
“What are you talking about? I don’t know anything about any pot plants.” Then it hit me like a brick. THE STUPIDIMENTERS! They were up to their old tricks. Oh boy! This was a good one!
“You heard me. I found them today! And by the size of the plants, they’ve been growing for some time.”
“Wow! You gotta be kiddin’. Are ya sure?”
“Am I sure? Of course I am! What else would be growing up there? Corn!?!” she snapped, exposing some of that sarcastic combativeness we had all grown to love.
My immediate thought leaked out of my mouth, “Pot! Holy shit! What idiots!”
“Hey! What have I told you about swearing!” No matter how distracted she was, she was always on auto-alert for certain infractions. She truly was a multi-tasker. Clearly all indiscretions were currently up for grabs.
“I meant, ‘shoot’! Sorry.” An empty an apology as ever I had mustered. I was still in awe of the enormity of this stupidiment to care much about a little slip of the tongue.
“So you really didn’t know about this?”
“Ma, I don’t smoke pot. Besides, the boys don’t tell me anything.”
She studied me for a moment to see if I’d crack, but she knew I was telling her the sad truth. It was a known fact that I didn’t smoke, drink, have sex or do anything that seemed even remotely rebellious. Ever since the Popoff affair, I was a sparkling example of good adolescent citizenship. I also was afflicted with BOBS (i.e., Boring Oldest Brother Syndrome). All right, so I ran around barefoot the whole summer. That’s not exactly the stuff of family turmoil. Yeah, I had a fascination with Playboy magazine too but that was about hormones, not rebellion. Growing pot? In the attic? Now that was some superior shenanigans.
The other sad truth was that Doug and Rick never divulged anything to me, lest it be known by all before dinner time. Mom was well aware of this sibling relationship, adding a measure of honesty to my response. Coming to her senses about my lack of involvement, mom barked a direct order.
“Switch rooms with them!”
“Now?”
“Yes! Right now!”
“Okay, if you say so.” Holy cow! What a stroke of luck! I was getting the third floor all to myself, and I didn’t even have to rat on them to get it. I even got to put the security door back up! This stupidimenting sure had its dividends.
It also had its hidden costs. Mom was pretty upset about the whole farming foray for some time. Even dad was demonstratively alarmed about the mess as well. As for me, other than a week or two of some tension packed dinners, I was content to get the attic bedroom. As for the dynamic duo, Rick was grounded for two weeks, and Doug for three—the extra week was for a beating Doug extended Rick later that afternoon for his inattentive gardening skills. They accepted their punishment and served their time on best behavior with the knowledge that most all of their friends’ parents would have shot them execution style on the spot. They would at least live.
In the end, two things were quite certain to me. First, my family had swiftly moved into a tumultuous era. One that reflected in many ways the challenges the late Sixties came to impose upon folks. Pot and drugs were going to be around a while, a long while, and the Crane clan was not immune.
The second certainty, the boys were allowed to live, which guaranteed the stupidimenting wasn’t quite over. Oh brother, it wasn’t by a long shot!
It lay beyond the unfinished attic area just off the laboratory (a.k.a., the third floor bedroom). A crouch to the left, then another left, and finally a six foot crawl through a two-foot high by two-foot wide, right-angle triangular tunnel would get any kid there in a jiffy. An adult, impossible. Not exactly the yellow brick road. Once through, there it was, a larger five-foot high by five-foot wide by fifteen-foot long room whose slanted rafter and frame ceiling sliced across from top to bottom—shingle nails exposed for the occasional skull puncture.
For years it had been a useful retreat for recharging crushed youthful spirit after particularly harsh and unjust parental decisions were meted out. But those days were long gone. Now it seemed more fit to be a pasture.
Once mapped out by mastermind Doug, it was time for the green thumb boys to get to work. The two upstart 4Hers toiled with their crops long and hard, hovering over each seedling like proud new parents, nurturing their babies into mature, splendid young ferns. Green, lush and bountiful.
Every night as the sun dropped from the orange sky, they unraveled the string of extension cords tucked under their mattresses. They plugged one end into the lone, life blood socket in their bedroom, laying the chain of cords out to reach the potted plants. At the other end they plugged an assortment of four confiscated lamps, shining warm, welcomed light on the shrubs. Sometimes they'd even leave the lights on during the day when conditions were ripe, like when mom was working and the risk of discovery small. When the sun rose bright and the milk truck roostered the start of a new day with the crowing of its screeching brakes, Doug and Rick just as carefully retrieved the extension chords and hid them away for safe keeping.
Their attention to detail and fastidious caretaking were eventually rewarded with as fine a crop of Mexican Gold as ever was grown under the rooftop of a New Jersey, suburban home. With the anticipated reaping of their harvest just a scant few days away, the boys were soon to become the new modern farmers of the local hippy underground.
How they escaped discovery still eludes me though. As a rather renowned squealer, I was more than up to the task of figuring this out. I mean the hints were all there for the spying. The sudden disappearance of my desk top lamp, an official Man From Uncle, two-switch, 75 watt beauty. The notable shortage of extension chords and novel new wiring of various household electronics. And finally, the perplexing interest these two dazzling teen suburbanites took in soil water retention and drainage strategies.
Well, to their credit, it truly was a wonderful stupidiment for some time. But like all things dumb for Doug and Rick, something unexpected inevitably revealed them. This would prove to be no different.
As usual, leaving details in Rick’s untested hands was when the whole operation took a sudden turn for the worse. It was a normal Saturday morning. Doug was hijacked early by dad for his quarterly haircut battle, leaving Rick in charge of unplugging the lights before going up to the park to hang out for the day. This required that in addition to unplugging he also took care of the hiding. Apparently, it was the hiding part that proved to be too formidable a task for Rick. He left the unplugged string of cords sitting there, weaving a snaky trail to the promise land—exposing the whole kit and caboodle to discovery by anyone who might stumble by.
By then, mom had become a notorious stumble-byer. Ever since the basket of cheer episode and a few follow-up cigarette mishaps, she had morphed into a round-the-clock, super sentinel with a nose for teen trouble. She had to. She had no option. As part of the “new” mom, she employed sudden bedroom inspections and hallway shakedowns.
This was such a day.
It didn’t take long before mom stumbled by.
Spotting the unplugged extension, her eyes followed the thick beige line until it attached to the next cord, a dark brown contrast. It continued on until it inched under the attic door. She opened the door. The house heaved the stale breath of warm, moth-ball, storage air. She followed the string in hot pursuit, letting it slip through her gentle grip as it slid along. It turned tightly to the left and around the corner. She moved the trunks that acted as a barrier, a rather poor impediment at that. She crouched to see the now white cord fade into the darkness beyond the shadows of the eave entrance. She sat back on the floor. “What in God’s name are they up to,” she wondered.
She pulled herself up and went back into the bedroom to cool down and regroup a bit. That is when she plugged the extension cord in and returned to the entrance. She crouched down to poke her head into the tunnel. She could see the brightness. “What are those? I don’t believe it. Why those gab dab no gob ...” This is approximately when she began speaking in tongues.
Mom was many things, but a navy seal she was not. She was determined though. And when mom was determined, well, the unimaginable occurred. She got down on her belly and inched through the 2 by 2 opening—the occasional bite of a shingle nail reminding her to keep her head and butt down. She made it, sweaty and a bit disheveled, but she got in there all the same. In fact, she would leave and return several times that fateful morning, clearing brush like George W. at his Crawford ranch. And once completed, she sealed up the field of dreams tighter than an abandoned Scranton mine shaft.
As hot a summer day it was, she sure was frosted. No two ways about it. In a mom instant, she decided the stupidimentors were moving downstairs into my bedroom and I was being promoted to the third floor. As usual, I was the first to feel the swift slice of her sword. It all happened so suddenly. I wasn’t more than two steps in the front door, when her interrogation began.
“So tell me young man what do you know about the crops!” she inquired, her eyes icy steel, her nostrils flaring.
Now if I knew anything, I knew that “young man” was not the kind of salutation that promised good things. I was cautious in my answers.
“Umm, what crops?”
“You mean to tell me mister you don’t know about the little gardening project in the attic?”
Oh baby! “MISTER”! I hadn’t heard that since the Popoff affair, and that was ten years ago. This was going to require a very careful repartee.
“What are you talking about ma?” Repartee was not my strong suit.
“You know! THE POT PLANTS!”
“What pot plants?” I was grabbing at straws, while I tried to piece together what the hell she was talking about. It sounded like the kind of gibberish I might hear from my great uncle Dukie. But he was 118 if he was a day. And he always had foam about the toothless gums like a rabid possum. This was mom. She was apparently crazed over something.
“Someone has been growing pot in the attic!”
“What are you talking about? I don’t know anything about any pot plants.” Then it hit me like a brick. THE STUPIDIMENTERS! They were up to their old tricks. Oh boy! This was a good one!
“You heard me. I found them today! And by the size of the plants, they’ve been growing for some time.”
“Wow! You gotta be kiddin’. Are ya sure?”
“Am I sure? Of course I am! What else would be growing up there? Corn!?!” she snapped, exposing some of that sarcastic combativeness we had all grown to love.
My immediate thought leaked out of my mouth, “Pot! Holy shit! What idiots!”
“Hey! What have I told you about swearing!” No matter how distracted she was, she was always on auto-alert for certain infractions. She truly was a multi-tasker. Clearly all indiscretions were currently up for grabs.
“I meant, ‘shoot’! Sorry.” An empty an apology as ever I had mustered. I was still in awe of the enormity of this stupidiment to care much about a little slip of the tongue.
“So you really didn’t know about this?”
“Ma, I don’t smoke pot. Besides, the boys don’t tell me anything.”
She studied me for a moment to see if I’d crack, but she knew I was telling her the sad truth. It was a known fact that I didn’t smoke, drink, have sex or do anything that seemed even remotely rebellious. Ever since the Popoff affair, I was a sparkling example of good adolescent citizenship. I also was afflicted with BOBS (i.e., Boring Oldest Brother Syndrome). All right, so I ran around barefoot the whole summer. That’s not exactly the stuff of family turmoil. Yeah, I had a fascination with Playboy magazine too but that was about hormones, not rebellion. Growing pot? In the attic? Now that was some superior shenanigans.
The other sad truth was that Doug and Rick never divulged anything to me, lest it be known by all before dinner time. Mom was well aware of this sibling relationship, adding a measure of honesty to my response. Coming to her senses about my lack of involvement, mom barked a direct order.
“Switch rooms with them!”
“Now?”
“Yes! Right now!”
“Okay, if you say so.” Holy cow! What a stroke of luck! I was getting the third floor all to myself, and I didn’t even have to rat on them to get it. I even got to put the security door back up! This stupidimenting sure had its dividends.
It also had its hidden costs. Mom was pretty upset about the whole farming foray for some time. Even dad was demonstratively alarmed about the mess as well. As for me, other than a week or two of some tension packed dinners, I was content to get the attic bedroom. As for the dynamic duo, Rick was grounded for two weeks, and Doug for three—the extra week was for a beating Doug extended Rick later that afternoon for his inattentive gardening skills. They accepted their punishment and served their time on best behavior with the knowledge that most all of their friends’ parents would have shot them execution style on the spot. They would at least live.
In the end, two things were quite certain to me. First, my family had swiftly moved into a tumultuous era. One that reflected in many ways the challenges the late Sixties came to impose upon folks. Pot and drugs were going to be around a while, a long while, and the Crane clan was not immune.
The second certainty, the boys were allowed to live, which guaranteed the stupidimenting wasn’t quite over. Oh brother, it wasn’t by a long shot!
This entry was posted
on Tuesday, August 4, 2009
at Tuesday, August 04, 2009
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Sixties Stories,
Still Living in the Sixties,
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