Help, my parents are growing cannabis!
California Skunk? was one of the first scents my daughter got in the nose. Because her birth was in our family occasion for a small Thanksgiving. As soon as the proud grandfather had boarded the week-end station, the smell surrounded the sleeping infant, who always reminded me of guinea pig cages. It emanated from a stuffed with self-grown grass tea caddy just this sort of about which I was not a little pleased. Because I have not been fishing for 20 years. And would have found a pretty rattle somehow more suitable as a baby welcome present.
But most of all you donate what you would like to have on your gift table. For 40 years, my parents have been tirelessly digging in secret gardens. When I was a kid, a sprawling one proliferatedcannabis-Hain in our garden, the Cypress Hill perhaps to the pothead anthem? I Wanna Get High? would have inspired, the guys would have stayed in the 90s with the tour bus in East Frisia: man-high and with potential for a trip to the nearest prison for the responsible gardener. "That's tobacco?" My mother lied as she spotted one of the ornamentally jagged leaves in my flower press.
From urban jungle to summer lilac-bed
Despite divorce, my parents are still united in their love for their fosterlings. Mom holds a littlecannabis-Between summer lilac and forsythia, while my father is Urban Jungle. Sleeping there is no longer possible, since his? Green goddesses? in the guest room up to that madness herb which my Norwegian friend Linda (for 15 years in Hamburg, accent-free German) robbed on a memorable evening and for a remarkably long period of their foreign language skills. Papa has decorated the timer and aeration-equipped grow plant with an art print by da Vinci's "Last Supper", Jesus with a gigantic bag in the corner of his mouth.
This stench. The horrendous electricity bill. The eternal talking shop about worm humus, sodium vapor lamps and Sinsemilla. These peat fibers that stick constantly under the socks. It's frustrating. "Why do not you breed roses?" I try to provoke my mother if she wants to persuade me that it's all about cultivating a unique, sensitive, yet powerful medicinal plant. ? Too conservative, much too landadelig!?, It is then. And somehow it would be nice to have a "little Spinello" after gardening! to twirl to join in? Who will be a millionaire ?? to laugh out loud. But the silly idiocy irritates me just as much as the? After Eight? -Fressflash, which overcomes my mother, when she has snuggled in a leisurely way.
A greeting from the Canaries
And no, a blow from the paternal vaporizer to smokeless apprehension would not relax me a bit, because I get from grass circulation. So I'm also talking about envy: I'm so stuffy that I can not even smoke anything without my cold sweat breaking out. This is certainly not easy for my parents, but at least they do not have to worry about being arrested. But I already. For example, when Mama smuggles her harvest in an empty shampoo bottle down to the Canaries? out of fear that the cleaning lady might accidentally dispose of her. "HIGH, my little one!", She wrote at the time on the holiday card? The love for home-grown is really strange flowers. And those of Mommy's Homegrown seem to be even more clean than I thought.
