How High Does Your Garden Grow?

From the obligatory wake and bake to that last roasting before sleep at night, there is so much more to the story. It goes so far back in fact, it doesn't start with me. (This will probably be a long one, just so you're warned.)

Mom would like to believe she was a hippy, stuck in the sixties even though that's where she spent her youngest years instead of her teenage years. That being said, after that fateful act that planted me inside her, of course there was only one thing to stem the nausea of morning sickness. Weed. My birth was fast, I was six weeks early and labor lasted about five minutes. Sometimes I wonder if I was just trying to get away from the smoke.

I went years in a happy oblivious fog, until after I moved back to the Pacific Northwest. There are things that I would notice that didn't mean much to me until I reevaluated them later. All the parents would get together and push the kids out to go play together, it never occurred to me why they would want us to leave. I get it now. Even after I understood it, it was still a couple years before figuring out that at times it was more then just weed. I remember now looking back, that ceramic unicorn thing that was always sitting out in my mom's friend's room was actually a bong. Later my mom told me about "ceramics parties" that everyone would attend. I even remember taking a trip with a friend of my mom's and stopping out at some house in the country so she could pick up a little baggie taped beneath the front deck. Isn't that shifty or what?

After my mom could no longer deny that I knew, it was something that came up in conversation. I asked her if I could smoke with her, by this point I hadn't tried it yet, she said she would smoke a bowl with me before I went off to college. Something I feel cheated on since I didn't go off to college.

One day when I was about sixteen my mom sat me down in her room all serious like and said we had to talk. An opportunity had come up that she couldn't move forward with without me onboard. I felt important. Mommy dearest wanted to grow. Her boss planned on setting her up with everything she needed and another friend had seedlings ready and waiting to be taken over. I was the hitch. She needed to make sure I would keep my mouth shut and not tell anyone. She explained how serious it was, the legal aspect of it and everything. I remember crying, like I always did, the idea scared me and she wasn't doing much to comfort me. What got me over my apprehension is her talking about the money it could mean for us. The kicker is she promised me a puppy. I never got the puppy.

So up the "room" went, my old yellow bedroom disappeared behind wallpaper of aluminum foil, big sodium lights were hung from the ceiling and fifty five gallon buckets each with a tender little seedling were spaced evenly over the floor. She vented the room into the attic from a hallway access point, meaning the "room" was obvious after you stepped into our home and there were times a quick shut down was in order because of company. She tried her best to keep me unassociated with it, but a time or two I was asked to water the plants when she couldn't and it wasn't worth risking the whole stock to wait. When the first batch (yes, first, there were more) was ready, my mom's boss came over and it was a grooming party that they kept shooing me from the room for. There was paper bags full of the stuff that my mom would eventually end up locking in the garage freezer. I never did see any extra income from the whole endeavor, either it wasn't as much as my mom expected, or the ripple effect just never reached me. I guess it was at least a learning experience.

At seventeen, a friend and I decided we wanted to get high. She had a friend so we took a couple busses and headed downtown. This was only my second experience with public transportation so I was already a little freaked out. We got to her friend's house, he was a coworker of her's from a monastery kitchen, he was bizarre. He gave us each a Budweizer and we sat and waited in his living room while he went and took a shower. It was my first beer and I didn't like it so my friend drank her's and half of mine as my gaze wandered over this guy's decor. He had a weird obsession with nuns, there was a book shelf with probably three hundred little nun dolls and figurines. It was weird. The guy finished his shower and slipped into his Ramone's worthy attire and out on the street we went again. Wandering downtown was so different then my known semi-suburbia, but I kept my amazement to myself considering it was just me who felt that way. We showed up at this other apartment, where two very friendly lesbians lived. Except for rumors at school, this was my first encounter with a same sex couple, it was a great impression because they were no different then anyone else and it was good for me to see that in my sheltered life. Turns out they didn't have any weed to sell though. Bummer. But they were willing to smoke us out. Um...what? I had been looking forward to more privately trying it for the first time, not in front of strangers in a strange place. I didn't know what it would do to me and I didn't want to find out with an audience. So I didn't smoke. My friend did. Already buzzed on a beer and a half she toked up. Then it was time to head home. Great, she was all ditzy and I didn't know the bus system. Thank god we were spending the night at her house that night, I doubt my mom would have liked any excuse we could have come up with about being late, while her parents didn't seem to mind in the first place.

A couple days or weeks later, I don't remember, I realized duh: I could get weed. Not only did my mom always have a stash but there were nearly fully grown plants growing in my own home. So in probably my biggest act of rebellion (besides stealing a few cigarettes from her while she was in the shower) I stole some from both her stash, and straight off a few plants. I head over to my friend's house (the same from my downtown adventure) with my little stash in hand. We informed a neighbor of her's of our precious herb and the neighbor pulled out her home made bong named Mr. Bubbles.

The first time I got stoned I was standing with these two girls in a six foot by three foot shed, hovered over a lawn mower with Mr. Bubbles in hand. After that, everything was hilarious. We went back to my friend's house giggling up a storm. I called up one of my best friends just to giggle and tell him that I was stoned. Something he didn't seem too impressed with but I was stoned and it was funny as hell to me.

They say that you never get as stoned as the first time, but for me, it was the second time. Several friends and I had planned a Halloween party at a local park. We had talked to the park manager and everything and were permitted to be there after hours as long as we weren't too loud. We barbequed hot dogs and had a cooler full of soda, a dozen people or so, some of them staggered throughout the evening, and some that didn't stay long. After it got dark, Mr. Bubbles joined the party. We had it sitting on the ground covered with a blanket, I guess we were waiting for the right time to smoke and thank god we waited. Sometime around eleven I would guess, a cop car came rolling up. There was a bong on the ground and a bag of weed sitting in a backpack near by, a couple of us were panicked. The cop came over and talked to us, saying there was a noise complaint from one of the near by neighbors but he didn't seem concerned considering he couldn't hear us at all when he pulled up. We offered him a hot dog, he declined, wished us a good time and was on his way. I had never felt so relieved.

After the stress of Mr. Policeman waned, the topic of Mr. Bubbles arose again. About half the people still there either didn't want to smoke, or because of parole couldn't, so those of us who wanted headed off to the play structure there at the park. We didn't have water so cola was the filtering agent of choice, and we torched two little bowls in a row. When we headed back to the rest of the group, I was feeling pretty good. One of the guys there wanted to drive my friend's car, he wasn't stoned so she let him, most everyone went with. Left behind were me and this one other girl who I was kind of friends with. I lit up a cigarette and sat down beside her. Time started to slow down for me about the same time she started talking.

I'd take a puff off my cigarette, watching those glowing embers burn down at an excruciatingly slow pace. I was only peripherally aware that the girl next to me was still talking, I could still hear her but I just kept thinking about how long it felt like that cigarette was taking. I feel bad for not listening to her because she needed it, about halfway through, her side of the conversation got serious. She was telling me that she thought she might be pregnant. However, I was stoned and as much as I wanted to be there for her, I was in my own world. After what seemed like forever I finally finished my cigarette, but I had a new problem. I was thirsty, incredibly thirsty. The cooler was only about five feet away but in my eyes it was kind of moving so it seemed like a daunting task. After debating it for quite some time I stood up, the head rush was amazing and horrible at the same time. I nearly tripped making my way across that five foot span to the cooler, but damn did that soda taste good once I got it.

My friend and the guy who wanted to drive her car returned. He was the one on parole and couldn't smoke but he had been a toker for years and enjoyed screwing with those of us that were stoned. He wanted to go driving again and for some reason I still can't determine I went with. He had no licence and he was only interested in playing. By the end of his second outing of speeding and sharp turns I came stumbling out of the car experiencing my first bout of car sickness. I'm not sure why anyone thought it was fun.

I smoked a few times after that, again stealing from my mom's stash, using a pop can the way more then one person had showed me at that Halloween party. I parted ways with the friend I had first gotten stoned with so the thrill was gone except for the pilfering of my mom's stock. It wasn't until a few months after the hubby and I moved in together (at that time he was still just my boyfriend but we all know where that led, right?) He had never smoked before, not that he didn't have the opportunity but he rather enjoyed telling people that he never had. We went down to the local head shop, simply because it was one of the things you do when you turn eighteen, like buying a lottery ticket and taking a trip to the porn shop. We found this little plastic bong that was U.V. reactive under the black light, and the hubby loved it. It was only like twelve bucks so we bought it. After a few days he said to me, "well... we might as well try it." So he called up his best buddy, the guy who had been trying for years to get him to smoke, and told him to come over, that he was ready.

Unfortunately it was the same night my hubby had tried beer as well. With some people, especially the first time, weed and alcohol don't mix, and they certainly didn't for him. A few bowls and a Killian's Irish Red later and the hubby was laying on the bathroom floor. I had a decent buzz, I think my breading better prepared me to handle weed and alcohol just fine. Oddly enough, after that my hubby wasn't turned off to the whole thing and we tried it again, just without the beer. It was great and it started us onto the path that we are on now.

At first after getting stoned we didn't want to do much of anything, except maybe sleep which felt so good back then. If we had smoked, there was no way I was driving anywhere so everyone that wanted me to play taxi was out of luck. The munchies were great back then too, and no matter what it was, it tasted amazing.

We are more seasoned smokers now. I can't get as stoned as I used to but then again part of me is happy about that. I can fully function now, if not better function with the aid of THC in my system. It takes the edge of my anxiety and slows down the stream of unconscious thought flowing through my head. It helps me calm down when I am wound up, and without it my appetite is nearly nonexistent. Contrary to popular belief, big girls need to eat too, if not I start feeling like complete shit. Sometimes weed just gives me that reminder I need to actually eat, however the munchies don't work the way they used to. Going along with my need to over analyze everything, I've been able to fend off munchie hunger for the sake of the real thing. It's linked to my food issues, damn my mother.

Speaking of my mother, I still haven't smoked with her. We never really talked about it again until one day a couple years after I moved out. I had stopped by her place for something, I can't remember what now, but when I arrived she was standing at the sink cleaning out a two foot tall glass bong. I'd seen her clean her bongs before, how else did I learn that rubbing alcohol and rock salt will make your pieces all squeaky clean again? This was a little different, she was telling me where she got it and mentioned that it had a missing piece. She poorly tried to explain what piece she meant, pausing to ask "you've used one of these before, right?" This was after she stopped paying my car insurance so I didn't have anything to loose by saying "um... yeah..." So again she tried to tell me what piece was missing, and I quietly piped up, "the slide." It was a pull stem and it was missing the slide on it, I felt myself getting red just saying it. It made me wonder if she knew how to use a bong without a carb on it. If she was surprised, she didn't let me see it, from the feel of the room, I was the only one who felt weird. I am looking forward to smoking with her some day.

It's funny all the tips I could give her on growing now. HighTimes.com has a great database of Q & A's that probably would have come in handy to her. A few months back I was house sitting for her and on the last day I decided to snoop. Be shocked that I waited until the last day, I excelled at snooping when I was younger. My old closet had been turned into a half assed grow room, it was all just so sad because I could have done so much better. You can't tell me that's not funny.

I'll admit I'm addicted, if not to the weed itself then to the laid back lifestyle. I'll also admit that I'd give up cigarettes and alcohol before giving up weed. Cigarettes and alcohol can and will eventually kill me if I don't quit one and cut back on the other. Weed will not kill me. It will make me lazy, and possibly a little dull, but it won't kill me. If you don't believe me, do your research.

I hope they legalize weed. Medically, there are so many people out there who would and have genuinely benefited from the aid of marijuana over any other stronger, more damaging medications. This wrongly classified drug (for some reason it still stands on the list with cocaine and crack) should be considered for what it is. Undeniably less harmful then cigarettes and alcohol, they should just legalize it and tax the hell out of it and ta-da! We'd be able to stop the budget cuts to schools nation wide and start giving money back. It's something to think about anyway.

Puff, puff, pass. It's a good life.