As March christens the half way point in the beautiful state of Oregon, only twenty miles away

from Portland. Zack a former flower child of the sixties was home on a Friday afternoon in his small

rundown three bedroom ranch style home in the secluded countryside. His mind was stirring with the

velocity of a small cyclone, as he ponders what to do about bills, being that he was just let go from his

job of fifteen years due to company downsizing. While pacing about the house he realized he needed

some fresh air to clear his mind, and reattain focus, Zack exited the house through the handle-less,

rickety, screen door at the back of the house and headed   towards the old shed in the yard.

The shed was an old version of an undersized barn, red in color that has a substantial fade do to

age and the years of exposure to the elements. It was built in the early seventies and leaned to the

left like that famous tower they are so proud of in Italy. As the walk progress through the knee high

pale, wispy,   green grass, a familiar stench much resembling that of a frightened skunk filled the

air. Zack turned the corner of the the old shed, and his face melted like a Salvador Dali image, in utter

disbelief. A small plantation of six foot tall, lime green, five and seven leafed, plants gleamed into his


The door to a bedroom in the house swiftly opens, with a stern voice bellering out “Franklin

Ringlinder, what the hell is wrong with you?”

A red headed, skinny, ginger boy appears from under the rainbow colored, unicorn comforter on

the bed in the corner, “what are you blabbing about dad?”

“what the hell do you growing behind my shed kid?”
  Frank surprisingly responds without a bit of remorse, “That's my weed dad.”

“You know I could lose my house for this, and you could end up in prison!”

“Dad I'm not going to get caught, hell, you didn't even know it was in your own yard.”...