It just wasn't right. How did a Picasso end up in the local gallery of a hick town like Loserville, Austin, Texas, my home of two-and-a-bit years? It was like the god of creativity was taunting me.

We'd shifted up from Florida when Pa's job vanished, and half our savings had gone on survival. Portrait painter became ranch hand, and the family got a crash course in the stench of cow dung.

Wash, rinse, repeat. I watched Pa go from inspiration to nobody in a matter of months, and I vowed that would never be my fate. I searched for a way to occupy my time which kept my head in the game and my eyes on my dream. Plant a seed and watch it grow. I was going to do what my old man could never manage. I was destined to be an artist, one just like the old masters. It is hard to be inspired when every horizon is just one more scene of dusty cropland or a barren field full of cattle. So, when I discovered we had a local gallery, well, I spilt my heart out, begging to volunteer there without a moment's hesitation.

Sweet Mary-Lou, well, she took one glance at that piece of paper with my studies and interests scribbled all over it, and she hired me on the spot. She was never in it for the money, and lucky for her, I was willing to work for free. All she asked at the start of every shift was that I brew her up some mushroom tea. That stuff stank worse than the perfume on Pa's overalls when he came home each night. But this was the only gallery in town, so I stuck to my guns. It paid off too, on the Sunday of my second week. A guy came in with a half dozen portraits he said his mom had painted. Zany stuff that Dali would have proudly put his name on. Said he wanted nothing for them, just wanted them out of the house. While Miss Mary-Lou was sleeping, I gave the nod of approval, then, when no one was looking, I checked online. Five out of six were amateur; the artist wrote MOM in the bottom corner of each one. The sixth, though, that looked legit. An actual Picasso, from his early days. I woke Mary-Lou with my excitement, but she did not believe me. Blamed the mushrooms for my hallucinations.

"Let me have it, then," I begged. "If you don't want it."

I took my leave that afternoon, showed Pa my find, and he quit too that day. No more cow dung or mushrooms for us now. Next stop: Splitsville, then Easy Street.

Well, it turns out we'd found a stolen piece from one of the big museums. A huge reward and an even greater opportunity. Pa's back in the game with me by his side. Dreams can come true, and do, all thanks to mushrooms, I suppose.

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