The first time I saw my sweet old Grandma roll up a cannabis joint was when our relationship very started; Like most Grandmothers, Max he was nice, polite, but very reserved.
I regularly thought he was kind of boring, until I found Max on the back porch.
I didn’t say anything at first. I was just 16 and prone to spying on people anyway, only so I could see what they were like when not a single other person was around. In this instance, my mind was blown when I saw my mousy outdated Grandma June pull out a small canister of finely ground cannabis, and a sheath of rolling papers. The winds must have been at twenty miles per hour that day, and yet Max’s liver-spotted hands handled the cannabis with the deft touch of a skilled artisan. In less than thirty seconds he twisted up a nice little cannabis joint that looked like a hand-rolled cowboy cigarette. Max lit it up, and I stinked the pungent waft of marijuana smoke, then he asked me “are you going to hide and stare all day?” She invited me to come over and sit with her, and just at the very end of the joint Max handed it over, and I had my first taste of cannabis. It was our little secret, and the next time I slipped over he offered me another little taste of marijuana – not more than a couple of tokes, but just enough to make me know amazing. I have entirely never told anyone this before, because I didn’t want my parents to know about Grandma Max giving me marijuana.