I wanted to throw a homage up today for my Best Friend and (Ex-Step) Father. Never had a great relationship with my real father. Career military, rarely home. Divorced my Mother by the time I was three or four. JG came into my life around the time I was five. I was a mommas boy at the time (of course) and over the next 10 years, he did his best to be a role model for me. Stricter than a mommas boy might have liked, but always with purpose. Our relationship was always tainted at the time by my "cult like fascination" with the here for a moment...gone again biological father.
Fast forward 10 or so years, and just about the time I was fully learning to respect (and be respected by JG)...through hard work of my own...my Mother and he separated. That was about the time I turned 17.
Flashback to when I was 14 or 15...One night digging in his truck for a lighter, I came across a band-aid can under the seat. Opening the lid, I came across some sticky farm grown bud...ready for my first (worst) attempt at a twisted joint. Hours later, I was enjoying my first rough buzz.
Now flashback even further, I remember the sacred herb being burned many times when I was growing up. God, I loved that smell. It meant that all the adults in the room were about to turn into children, ready to laugh...giggle and play along to whatever tune a child might have. That was the hook for me...and what lead me to that band aid can years later.
Not long after that, I discovered my first QP...hiding in his garage. Big old zip lock with colas running end to end. Pure homegrown love by the locals. I became a bit of a stoner cult legend. Where Mexi brick usually flowed, here came a young white boy flush with the freshest bud in the county. Tapes and women were exchanged...a barely pubescent dream.
Then there were a few years of cat and mouse...he knew I knew...Mother would not have approved...therefore, his buds were sacrificed to me and my friends, and roaches were stolen...all with a very minimal accusatory eye. Don't take too much...don't tell.
By the time I was 16, my Mother and JG had divorced, it was then that our 'true' friendship began. No longer the care taker, we could enjoy each other for our likes and dislikes...open in ways that we never were with others.
That relationship went on for 25 years...JG always had a bag and a bowl (or papers) ready for me every time I came to visit. We shared adventures that his biological daughter (nor my real father) never dared to tread.
He had some heart issues from a virus many years ago. Of late, he had been feeling worse and worse. Having seen the pattern before, we all thought he would rally once again. Unfortunately, his release from the hospital would be the end. He passed away this morning at a much too early age...and I am without a Father and a Friend.
I owe my love for IC to a man named JG...May he RIP
Heart Broken as I am, I want to respect him.
Fast forward 10 or so years, and just about the time I was fully learning to respect (and be respected by JG)...through hard work of my own...my Mother and he separated. That was about the time I turned 17.
Flashback to when I was 14 or 15...One night digging in his truck for a lighter, I came across a band-aid can under the seat. Opening the lid, I came across some sticky farm grown bud...ready for my first (worst) attempt at a twisted joint. Hours later, I was enjoying my first rough buzz.
Now flashback even further, I remember the sacred herb being burned many times when I was growing up. God, I loved that smell. It meant that all the adults in the room were about to turn into children, ready to laugh...giggle and play along to whatever tune a child might have. That was the hook for me...and what lead me to that band aid can years later.
Not long after that, I discovered my first QP...hiding in his garage. Big old zip lock with colas running end to end. Pure homegrown love by the locals. I became a bit of a stoner cult legend. Where Mexi brick usually flowed, here came a young white boy flush with the freshest bud in the county. Tapes and women were exchanged...a barely pubescent dream.
Then there were a few years of cat and mouse...he knew I knew...Mother would not have approved...therefore, his buds were sacrificed to me and my friends, and roaches were stolen...all with a very minimal accusatory eye. Don't take too much...don't tell.
By the time I was 16, my Mother and JG had divorced, it was then that our 'true' friendship began. No longer the care taker, we could enjoy each other for our likes and dislikes...open in ways that we never were with others.
That relationship went on for 25 years...JG always had a bag and a bowl (or papers) ready for me every time I came to visit. We shared adventures that his biological daughter (nor my real father) never dared to tread.
He had some heart issues from a virus many years ago. Of late, he had been feeling worse and worse. Having seen the pattern before, we all thought he would rally once again. Unfortunately, his release from the hospital would be the end. He passed away this morning at a much too early age...and I am without a Father and a Friend.
I owe my love for IC to a man named JG...May he RIP
Heart Broken as I am, I want to respect him.
