Monday, October 9, 2017
Mama & The Canadian Pothead...
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| Aggie & Don't-Call-Me-Grandma |
It's Thanksgiving in Canada, and I am reminded of my mother and her quest to mark smoking pot off her bucket list… When my sister was in college, she had some interesting friends – one of which was a pothead from Ontario whose name was Ryan or Reed or something like that. Anyhow, for one reason or another, she would regale us with tales of his adventures with smoking weed. I didn’t care and to this day I don’t know why Mama was so interested. My friend Kathy and I once took my mother to a Hall & Oates concert where the air had a decidedly sweet smell and all Mama did was shout “What is that smell?” over the music. Kathy finally told her to just shut up, inhale and enjoy it. Which might just be the reason why she was so interested in the unlawful exploits of my sister’s friend from north of the border… Anyhow, one fall my mother embarked on a vacation to Michigan to visit my sister who was living off-campus at the time. All Mama could talk about was meeting the pothead and “smoking a marijuana cigarette,” she’d say. “I think they call it a joint, Mama,” I’d remind her. My sister planned an evening get-together and Mama was beside herself with excitement. “Well, have fun,” I encouraged her reluctantly. I had horrifying visions of my mother’s mugshot and the headline “Hash-smoking Housewife Handcuffed” on the front page of the Grand Rapids Press. I made sure I had enough money for bail. About eleven the night of the big soiree, the phone rang. It was my sister. “Well?” I asked. Apparently the evening went fairly well – or as well as a college party could go with Mama in its midst, constantly asking when they were all going to smoke pot. I guess the Canadian finally got tired of her badgering and produced his stash. “Not in my apartment!” my sister decreed and showed the bad influence and the would-be pothead to the laundry room in the basement. My sister said that when the moment of truth had finally arrived, Mama made a face and said, “I’m not smoking that wet, nasty cigarette after you – that’s disgusting! I want my own!” Apparently, the pothead was not as well-connected as he had implied to his friends and he only had the one joint with him. And so I don’t think Mama ever marked that particular item off her list of things to do before she died, but we always enjoyed retelling the story, laughing and teasing her over trying.
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