Boy, Mom was mad.
And I was stupid. And 10 years old.
Somehow that miniature version of me thought I could get away with smoking weed. How many 10-year-olds get a chance like that? Nervous and scared I did it.
And nothing. Except a whole-lotta trouble.
Before we get too far, you all need to know this: It was actual weeds that I smoked at the urging of an older boy in the neighborhood. He either had it completely wrong or thought that weeds actually had the same harrumph as weed.
I thought about this memory more than a few times during the past couple of weeks writing about the use of plastic packaging in the legal marijuana industry for Plastics News. If you get a chance, check the story out here.
I learned a lot doing the piece, and it will cut through the haze and provide a bit of insight into this growing segment of the packaging industry.
Anyway, growing up in suburban Pittsburgh, the lush, tree-covered green hills of Western Pennsylvania provided plenty of cover for all sorts of childhood fun and even some ridiculousness from time to time. Like smoking weeds rolled up in a coloring book page. I'm not kidding.
It was me and my best friend at the time, and his older brother by a few years. Man, those weeds were hard to light. I'm thinking we probably smoked the paper more than anything else.
As I tentatively walked into my house, it took exactly three seconds for my mom to ask: “Were you smoking?”
Busted, even with an initial denial.
I remember getting in big trouble, and once she sorted everything out, a really stern lecture.
I'm sure there were mom-to-mom phone calls that followed.
Somehow, I have to believe Mom had a quiet chuckle about the whole thing.
And I got a story to tell 40-some years later.