First Person is a daily personal piece submitted by readers. Have a story to tell? See our guidelines at tgam.ca/essayguide.
Part of Cannabis and consumers
This week, First Person celebrates the fun and frustrating holiday season.
Estée Preda
A few days after legalization, a friend called. “I have two pot plants. Do you want them?” he asked my husband, a retired scientist, and more specifically a botanist with a PhD in forest ecology. Given my husband’s love of all things botanical, he, of course, was interested in the offer. My own extremely unpleasant experiment with dope eons ago left me not at all interested in owning, in growing, in smoking or in ingesting any part of it.
But now that pot is legalized and the children have left home, and noting the aesthetic value of the plants – they are beautiful – I went along with the scheme. I pictured them as two small, ornamental, coffee-table size house plants. We did need a touch of greenery, which they would provide – for free. I pictured the feature article in a magazine, "Canadian Living: The new decorating – with dope!”
Our friend arrived at the door on a particularly busy morning. Outside I could see a flurry of people getting out of their cars, going in the neighbouring church. With no desire for them to spot our unconventional Sunday offering, I struggled to quickly bring the plants inside, almost falling over myself in the attempt. But instead of the hoped-for coffee-table size plants, two palm tree-like shrubs had arrived in our living room!
“What now?” I thought. “Where do we park these giants? Should they go by the entrance of our small sitting room, so we have something real elegant?" But in our modest home of 1,000 square feet, half of the floor space of the sitting room would be spoken for by said plants, leaving the other half for other activities such as Gatsby-themed cocktail parties. (Just kidding.)
All we could do was sit, gaze and admire the shrubbery. For a few days, while we talked about where to park these monsters to maximize their aesthetic value, I didn’t really notice any odoriferous emanations. Maybe that’s because the weather was warm and the windows open. But then came a cold blast in early November and we had to keep all windows shut. Entering the house after work, I was assaulted by the pungent, skunky odour. Forget aesthetics! Forget elegance! I banished the two giants to the spare bedroom downstairs.
The next morning my husband exclaimed, “Let the experiment begin!” as he disappeared into the basement, laden with instruments of harvest. He cut and trimmed and manicured the plants, then separated the harvest into primary leaves, secondary leaves and so on. He worked on it for hours. After such diligence, I anticipated seeing only a plant skeleton remaining. But, no! It looked as if he had barely touched the thing. For the next few days when I arrived home from work, I would find him sitting at the table with his scissors, little mounds of processed plant parts on a tray before him.
And the house reeked of pot. To be truthful, I started being quite careful about whom I invited for a visit. Even though pot is now legalized, I am not certain if my older friends and neighbours would understand my husband’s obsession. He kept at the plant, neglecting daily chores as I noticed the dishes and laundry pile up.
Despite the fevered trimming, the plants did not get smaller. Quite the contrary. In a manner reminiscent of the serpent-like Hydra monster of Greek mythology, four buds reared their leafy heads where one had been harvested. Too bad the kids weren’t around for this demonstration of the mathematical principle of exponential growth, which I had many times tried to explain to them when it came to saving money.
I think he harvested a little more than 100 grams – certainly more than enough for a few lifetimes of light weight consumption! And it became clear that unless I took matters into my own hands, the original plants, because of the active processing, might soon reach the window sills, spread under doors and climb the walls. Their powerful smell was turning my beloved little home into a stoner den. Meanwhile, my husband with a sore back, sore shoulders and sore hands exclaimed, “Jeez! Bud trimmers really earn their money.” Who knew?
“Can we even sell the result of all this activity?” I ask.
No, he says.
“So why are you doing it?”
But the purpose eventually becomes clear, amidst the altered reality of my pot-vapour assaulted brain. The plants are both a retirement-savings strategy of sorts and an answer to a long-cherished dream of mine to celebrate a less-commercially driven Christmas by exchanging more home-made gifts. Over the years, my husband has taken this up by searching through the shelves at Value Village and Salvation Army to find unsuspecting treasures. But now I see a new era opening up.
If you are expecting a gift from our household this year, watch for some kind of legally home-processed, home-made, green gift that should bring you much joy and happiness. And instead of the traditional bottle of wine as our contribution to your festive event, I hope you won’t be offended if we bring a little legally homegrown, home-processed toke instead. This bud’s for you!
Sylvie Roy lives in Regina.