LESSONS MY GRANNY TAUGHT ME

LESSONS MY GRANNY TAUGHT ME
She blew my mind and then other things.

by Oediplex 8==3~


The graveyard was quiet. In the space enclosed by a cedar hedge, I sat on the bench toking a fat doobie in remembrance of my Granny. She would have shared it with me, if she was there. I felt her spirit like a presence, a wisp of pungent smoke rose ghost like from the joint and seemed to signal she was with me. The buzz pervaded my whole self; the tingling in my groin was a memory of our secret life. No one knew of what we had shared. We were more than simply family, not just close; she was my buddy, I was her lover.

She installed the seating and insured seclusion so that I could visit her in peace and privacy and enjoy the time when I was here. She had left me her wealth to make sure that I could live the good life after she died. I took another hit, holding it in, letting my mind wander as I pondered her final resting place. There, carved in the rock which stood upright across her plot from where I sat, were the words Granny had written herself.

Below this headstone lies the stoned head of
Grace Elizabeth BonGrasse
b. Jan. 7, 1946 – d. Dec. 28, 2008

I Hope to be High in Heaven

The marble that marks my resting place,
The rock which notes the grave of Grace;
Does tell the tale of how I coped,
By toking up my share of dope.
My marijuana made me full of mirth,
For being high was paradise on earth.
If I have gone to my hoped reward,
I’ll be talkin’ and tokin’ with the Lord;
So now in death I make my point,
Heaven must be a hell of a joint!
by Gracie B

Yeah! Granny was a real fucker, literally. I know. She called her cunt, ‘The Deceiver Beaver’, because she did it on the sly with me. I would be up in her room and we’d close the door – lock it – and have a quickie. Other times, when my folks were gone for a few days, we would romp on their queen-size bed. Of course we never left any sign or evidence of our playtime. Gran was a firm believer in being covert and stealthy. And she taught me those skills, passed down from generations of my ancestors. There were no angels on her side of the family, though she claimed that my dad seemed to have suppressed the training she provided when she was trying to raise him to be a rascal; though he proved to be something of a rake later on.

I inhaled more weed and thought about the wild heritage Granny detailed in our sharing of pot and sex and secrets. For the past hundred years at least, a skein of scoundrel seems to have been inherited through my paternal genes. But I’m getting ahead of my story, being high does that to me. My history lessons started on a hot August night a few weeks before my Junior year in college. I was out on the deck of our suburban home, when out of nowhere a gruff voice growled, “Don’t bogart that joint, kid!” I almost shit myself. My folks were gone for a week’s vacation and Grandma was in bed asleep, or so I thought.

It was her though, she stepped through the sliding glass doors from behind the curtains and boldly snatched the doobie I was smoking from my hand. She took a long drag, held it like a ‘old’ pro and gave me a huge wicked grin. The moment was frozen as I freaked out at my sixty year young Gran, who stood in her robe and toked my grass. “Primo!” was all she said before sucking deep again on it and passing the dope back to me. I didn’t know what else to do, so I took another hit myself. I never would have guessed! Looking back, it ought to not have been so shocking, just that the topic had never been breached in my hearing. Grandma Gracie was good at appearing innocent when quite the opposite.

“Have you got any more of this?” she asked?

“Uh . . . a another already rolled and some in a baggie, Gran.” I confessed, astounded at her conspiratorial tone.

“Get the other joint and come with me!”

I was unsure of what she had in mind, but I dutifully handed her the doobie and fetched the second.

“Take off your tee and get bare foot.” She ordered when I returned. What the hell? What was this crazy coot planning? I shed my shirt and kicked off my sandals. She passed the smoldering marijuana cigarette to me and took me by the hand as I took a hit. “We’re going to the Benjamin’s pool!” she whispered.

Our next door neighbors, the Benjamin’s were out of town for this month, up to their cabin in Vermont. They had a nice swimming pool they didn’t mind us using, but that was always in the day. It was certainly warm enough for a late night dip, but I never expected Grams to initiate such an adventure. “I’ll get my trunks in a jiffy,” I offered.

“No need! We are going to skinny-dip. And don’t tell me you never did! You and your girlfriend slipped in, back in July at three AM! I watched the whole thing through my window.”

‘Jeez!’ I thought – ‘she must have seen us screwing too!’ “ Do you have your suit on under your robe?” I asked.