My husband, Art, has been working in the construction field for a little over 30 years.
He has been privileged to work for the elderly and disabled, turning their homes into wheel-chair friendly environments to what society calls the elite class. For example, one of the many multi-million dollar homes he worked on was highlighted on an old 90's show called, "Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous" with Robin Leach.
As the wife of this amazing hunk of a construction worker, I have reaped many benefits of the "throw-away" treasures of these fortunate homeowners who remodel their homes. It's true what they say, one man's trash is another man's treasure. I have to say the family favorite is an older La-Z-Boy recliner that tips over when you sit in it-but this is another story, one I do not have time to share.
Actually, I do have a few other items worth mentioning: a silver spoon dated in the early 1900's, Brittany inherited a complete oil painting kit, Justin inherited a collector's case full of hard to find hot wheels, and I inherited seven collector's tea cup sets.
Along with the goodies he gets to bring home, he has found some interesting items tucked away in walls and behind kitchen cabinets. Items such as magazines which are sold with brown paper wraps and videos of the same nature. A yearbook from the class of '59, and gum wrappers from brands that were already extinct by the time we were teenagers.
Not only does he come home with interesting items, sometimes he comes home with interesting smells embedded in his clothing. Some, I won't list--let's just say there are times when he tells me not to touch him until after he showers.
Of all his ventures as Joe Construction Worker, we would both agree last week tops them all. You see, he has been coming home smelling like pot. He tells me this story about how his latest client has several plants growing in the attic and has baggies and papers in the ashtrays in the living room! Before you go judging our client, let me say that there is a legal reason for this. In the state of Oregon, we have what is called a Marijuana Medical Card. Sadly; the Mr. in this family has chronic pain from a severe illness-just had to clear this up.
Anyway, on Thursday, this amazing hunk of a construction worker comes home and tells me about his lovely day.
"So, guess what happened to me today?"
Adjusting to the aroma of the Cannabis, I say, "I can only imagine".
He tells me that he was in the garage cutting a piece of wood when he was startled by a deep voice.
"Excuse me sir, do you live here?"
"No man, I just work here."
The officers are staring him down--already suspicious. One of the officers is the one we had a problem with when our son had his motorcycle accident.
"We received a call that there are Marijuana plants on the premises, we're going to have to search the place."
"Well, the owners are not home right now, but I do know they have a medical card that allows them to grow the plants".
Fortunately for my husband, the son came home and answered the remaining questions from the officers. Art swiftly walked away and busied himself in the garage. With this, one of the officers followed him and watched every move he made. The officers left, finally receiving the proof they needed.
About an hour later, these same cops came flying around the corner and stop in front of the house. Art is thinking-now what. It seems that the son and the neighbor boy were having a conflict and the neighbor boy's dad called them again. Apparently, there has been a long-standing feud between these two families and even though everyone in the immediate area knows about the plants, someone has to be mean and call the cops about the plants.
My poor man, he always has something going on. I told him I was glad he made it home safely and I was so glad I didn't have to go bail him out of jail.
I did have one final question before we went into the house:
"So what were you thinking this whole time?"
He pauses a moment then says, "Sorry buddy, you're about 30 years too late".
© Teresa Ortiz
