Go Ask Alice ...... For What It’s Worth

Afew weeks ago I made my very first visit to a pot shop. That’s right! Linda Susan Knight never ever smoked pot, even though my father was sure I was passing time with a hookah-smoking caterpillar somewhere. Because I was so different word on the street was that I was working in some hookah lounge enticing my fellow local teen youth to corruption.

After a couple of brief tries I realized my imagination overpowered whatever was in the marijuana and was always in disbelief how folks raved about it. Let’s not forget the many cafés I frequented in Montreal on Mountain Street that hung with marijuana smoke. All I got from that was watery eyes and a bad cough. It just wasn’t my thing.

I was a weekend hippie though, no doubt about that fact. No one in my family was allowed to become a full time one, according to my father; so the weekend had to do. It began one day in 1966 sitting at the Riviera Café with my friends after school, and listening to The Buffalo Springfield’s new song, “For What It’s Worth”. Everybody in that café instantly came together and sang the song at full volume until each note was over.

It was a huge turning point in my life, not about drugs, but about standing up for what I believed in. During the summer of 1967 my friends and I took the bus to Montreal and would hand out flowers for peace at the Place Ville Marie plaza every weekend. People would come up to the girl with the flowers in her hair and ask if I was from San Francisco. I would just smile from ear to ear as that was the highest compliment anyone could give me.

Even with all the peace and flowers it seemed like I was still missing something. You know, maybe a couple of tokes or a boyfriend, living a hippie lifestyle. He would be wearing long hair in braids, playing guitar, preferably living out of a Volkswagen van, protesting violence, and spreading peace and love. Instead I nailed it down to lack of marijuana, and just not being cool enough “to be experienced” as Jimi Hendrix once sang about.

Being in pain from my fall weeks ago I had trouble sleeping. Someone suggested I buy some THC Gummy Bears and maybe some CBD topical cream. For days I thought about it– not sure that it would work- but I had a bunch of inflammatory reasons in my legs to consider it. While the thought of your grandparents buying things like this seems quite funny-- it actually worked for me.

I checked the store online and decided what I was going to get and went there early Saturday morning. Immediately after entering, a man at a desk took my order and sent me into the store that was hidden. I swear when I walked in there it was like walking into a Disney store--the colours just overwhelmed me. It was the Psychedelia sub-culture of the 60s all over again. Order complete, and upon exiting I bump into a couple of other seniors purchasing things. I smiled, said good day, and it suddenly made me feel better about the whole transaction.

Did they work? The gummies allowed me to sleep, but funny things happened each night I took them. I would wake up in terror dreaming that I had fallen into all sorts of dark holes and when I woke up I was safe in my bed. Cue the Jefferson Airplane song “White Rabbit” immediately.

But, there were no Hallmark Hippie dreams of me from the 60s getting the attention of a very tall lanky guy one night at a concert in front of the Cowansville town hall. I can remember his towering height, the long matted hair, and the god awful smell of patchouli. I can still remember holding Taupe’s hand at that concert and then after one light peck on the cheek I never really saw him again. I guess I was hoping to have dreams of peace, flowers and former cute boys but that was a giant no. In all honesty I swear I still smelled the patchouli in my dreams.

Last week at a church luncheon I got brave and told a couple of seniors at the table what I had been up to. Instead of looking at me in shock, these folks that are in their 80s started telling me their stories. I guess I was pretty flabbergasted. I did some research and sure enough--grandparents are by far the fastest growing cannabis--using population by far. Thank god it’s legal as no one wants to see Grandma in the slammer folding laundry and making licence plates.

I did some research and sure enough--grandparents

are by far the fastest growing cannabis--using population by far. Thank god it’s legal as no one wants to see Grandma in the slammer folding laundry and making

licence plates.

At the end of the luncheon discussion, one senior told me that she just didn’t like getting the bad dreams. I laughed and said I fell down a hole every night and she looked at me with wide eyes. “You too?” she asked. We both started to laugh and told each other our dreams, but I was the only one to smell the patchouli--- figured, I really hated that smell.

I’m going to end this by saying if you feel this might be for you, please discuss it with your doctor first and don’t go by what I say. I am just a writer and have no medical licences and this is not a 10 Reasons To Get Grandma and Grandpa High column. I can’t say I got high from the gummies or the topical cream, so I’m wondering if things were better quality when they were illegal.

I guess I will always wonder what others experienced, and I told my son this week that if I were younger I would still be a protesting Hippie wherever they needed me. But mother is old now, and if she gets up in the morning and something doesn’t ache or sound broken, it’s a good day. I can’t remember what happened two hours ago but ask me to sing “For What It’s Worth,” by The Buffalo Springfield from 1966, and I can still remember every word. Nothing really changes does it? Maybe this was Keith Rhichards’ secret all along how to stay alive and we just didn’t know.