The first time I saw my grandmother roll up a joint was when our relationship really started. Like most grandma’s she was nice, polite, but very reserved. I always thought she was kind of boring, until I found her on the back porch. I didn’t say anything at first. I was 16 and prone to spying on people anyway, so I could see what they were like when no one else was around. In this instance, my mind was blown when I saw my mousy old grandmother pull out a small canister of finely ground cannabis, and a pack of rolling papers. The winds must have been at twenty miles per hour that day, and yet her liver-spotted hands handled the cannabis with the deft touch of a skilled artisan. In the space of thirty seconds she twisted up a nice little cannabis joint that looked like a hand-rolled cowboy cigarette. She lit it up, and I smelled the pungent waft of marijuana smoke, then she asked me “are you going to hide there all day?” She invited me to come over and sit with her, and just at the very end of the joint she handed it over, and I had my first taste of cannabis. It was our little secret, and the next time I went over she gave me another little taste of marijuana – not more than a couple of drags, but just enough to make me feel amazing. I have actually never told anyone this before, because I don’t know how my parents would feel about grandma giving me marijuana.