Griffin was the most devoted member of our family to the idea of family. He held all of his cousins dear to his heart and an enormous reservoir of curiosity about both Gretchen and my families and our growing’s up. At dinner time on those too seldom occasions when we all sat down together at the family table and took the time to simply fellowship, Griffin invariably turned the conversation to stories from my childhood. He found them hilarious. Griffin had this stink-eye laugh where his whole face would contort as he would literally cry and sometimes even throw up from the laughter.
So in Griffin’s honor, I share with you over the next several blog posts the stories from my childhood that Griffin loved.
Our house on 143rd Street in unincorporated Snohomish County (the unincorporated is an important detail as you’ll see) was stocked full with kids we grew up playing with and the characters that raised them. One such character was our next door neighbor, Bernie. Bernie ran a rental car franchise in Lynnwood but his dream had always been law enforcement. He talked about it for the better part of seven or eight years and finally did what most of us don’t do when we near mid-life: he went after his dream. He went through the auxiliary police academy and became a part time cop on the weekends with the Lynnwood Police Department.
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| Kelley, Sean, Sheila, John, Tim and Laurie, circa 1984 |
Bernie’s shift started at 7pm on Saturdays and Sundays, if memory serves. But Bernie would generally dress for his shift around 4pm just to let the uniform find its fit, like an old pair of shoes. And he’d walk the street and visit with neighbors in their yards, gardening, his patent leather belt shining, his gun holstered and that beautiful Lynnwood Police Department badge gleaming. He was a proud member of a proud force. It was admirable. But there may have been a little bit of Barney Fife inhabiting Bernie. Here’s why I think so.
My brother Tim was a high school junior at the time. Chronologically at least, because he certainly wasn't academically. Tim had “hobbies” that tended to occupy time he could have been in class or studying. Tim is by far the smartest of my mother’s children. He’s got a genius mind for inventing and tinkering. He was also the most independent of us, spending a few summers working in Alaska in a salmon processing plant. He was an earner. He bought his own clothes, bought his own motorcycle and largely took responsibility for himself from the time he entered high school.
From somewhere in middle school and through high school (and maybe even now that it’s legal in Bend, Oregon) Tim enjoyed himself some marijuana. Well, not some. A lot. And though he was an earner, summer money only went so far when it came to his habit. Tim also occupied the one room in our house that faced Bernie’s house. And lo and behold one Saturday there came a knock at our front door. Well, not a knock. A police rap.
My mom answered the door. Bernie stood in the doorway, fully prepped for his shift at 3pm. A little early for even Bernie. “Sheila, I need to talk with you.”
“Yes, Bernie?” my mom replied, still annoyed by being interrupted by a police rap on the door.
“Uh, Sheila, we’ve got a problem we need to get addressed today,” Bernie said.
“Okay.”
“Uh, Tim’s got a plant growing in his window. I think it’s a pot plant.”
“Okay.”
“Well, I’m going to need you to, ah, get it removed and disposed of by the time I leave for my shift. If you could do that, I’ll turn a blind eye.”
“Bernie, I don’t know what’s growing in Tim’s room. Tim’s room is his private space and if he’s into horticulture then that’s none of your business. And, besides, Bernie, we don’t live in Lynnwood so I think you’re a little out of your jurisdiction.”
And with that my mother closed the door, walked up the stairs in our split level 70s home and marched straight down the hallway to Tim’s room. She knocked on the door. Tim answered, the door open only as much as necessary to conduct a conversation.
“Tim, do you have a pot plant in your window?”
Tim paused as he pondered his reply. Tim was capable spinning a story and I have seen him lie his way in and out of trouble more times than I can remember. But he could not lie to our mom. For whatever reason his moral compass, generally fogged by smoke and clogged by bong resin in most situations, found its true north in the presence of my mom.
“Yeah, I do,” he confessed.
“Tim, why are you growing pot in my house? And why on God’s green earth would you grow it in the one window in our entire house that faces Bernie’s house?”
Again, Tim paused and pondered.
“Well, it wasn’t doing well in the closet.” And he turned, walked to his closet and revealed an elaborate operation with grow lamps and hydroponic equipment.
I’m not sure exactly how it ended, but I do think Vern Willard ended up buying the equipment. Tim, I’m pretty sure, managed a way to smoke the product.
