Operation: Ganja Grow
My teenage years could best be described as an anthology of bad judgment and high-risk endeavors. I matured through a series of testing boundaries and pushing limits; Usually resulting in a substantial loss of money, parental punishment, a trip to the slammer, or a combination of the above. Being an avid user of marijuana, cultivation became the perfect outlet to get my adrenaline fix.
Growing ganja is something most pot-smoking teens try, but that typically only involves placing a seed in bucket and hiding it somewhere in the back yard. I however, took up this project in the finest of fashion. First, I considered the risks. Then, completely dismissed them; knowing I was more than capable of undertaking the operation. I also knew of the perfect location for this entire operation, the attic, which was only accessible through my bedroom closet.
After several sleepless nights, researching every form of literature on marijuana cultivation, I used my dad’s credit card to order prize-winning seeds from Amsterdam. The tiny kernels came cleverly concealed in a plastic fish, to evade customs agents. Credit card still in possession, I proceeded to buy 1000w agricultural lamps, premium soil, ph testers, a humidly control unit, and a complete carbon filtration system; all shipped discreetly to a PO box I had down the street. My ego demanded only the highest quality components during my compulsive spending spree. The total cost ended up around 2,500 dollars. My dad never noticed because it was right in between all my Mother’s Christmas shopping.
After constructing an air-conditioned and white-walled grow chamber in the attic, I was ready. Methodically, I would sneak up to the attic after my parents were asleep and attend to the plants. I used every technique and procedure I had discovered during my research. The thick stems and lush green color of the leaves were solid indications that I was making all the right moves,
Slowly, they began to bloom. Sweet and succulent aromas began to diffuse from the frosted red hairs. I thought to myself, “Good thing I bought that carbon filtered air purifier.” I reveled in my genius, and could literally begin to “smell” success.
But one fateful night, about 2 weeks before harvest, my Dad decided to check on me at a strange hour. When there was no response to his knock, he manually opened the locked door. Upon entering my room, he caught me climbing down from the attic with watering pails and immediately made the connection. “What are you growing up there?” he demanded. I froze in an awkward pose. “Nothing Dad, don’t worry about.” He climbed up the tiny ladder to the attic and opened the barn style doors of the grow chamber. Then, he froze in an awkward pose. I expected him to burst into a fury of rage, but he didn’t. He simply stared in amazement and asked me, “How did you do this?’
Needless to say, the plants were disposed of and I was left brutally crushed. I cried. I cried like a 14-year-old girl who just got a hack-job haircut. I had never worked so hard or been so dedicated to anything in my life. I didn’t even care to smoke it (although it would have been nice).
It wasn’t about the weed, or about the money. It was about the adrenaline rush of beating the system and the gratification that comes from a flourishing enterprise. I had failed. But yet, I had matured slightly by pushing a limit and testing a boundary. Ultimately content, I had assured myself of what I knew all along; I was more than capable of undertaking the operation
