I knew when I saw my father sitting at the kitchen table that I was in trouble. I was a teenager, returning home late from a night out with my friends. I was high. As we did most nights, my friends and I had been smoking pot. It was 1970. Nearly everyone my age did.
I took a quick inventory of my state of mind and concluded that so long as my conversation with him was casual and brief, there was a chance he wouldn't notice I was cockeyed stoned. One of the virtues of pot, or so I thought then, was this ability to play it straight.
"Mark, do you smoke?" he asked.
I could not lie to my father. I hope it was because I respected him and knew he did not lie to me.
"Yes," I told him, and braced myself.
He was furious, but not about my marijuana use. He had not even considered that possibility. He thought I was smoking cigarettes!
I was not. They gave me a headache and left a god-awful taste in my mouth. They were addictive and caused cancer. But while I might not have been able to lie to my father, I was expert at withholding the complete truth. I bore the scolding manfully and gave him my word I would never smoke another cigarette. And I haven't.
It took me longer to stop smoking dope. Having raised five children of my own and entered upon grandfatherhood, I can report two things: (1) I think we ought to repeal laws against marijuana possession; (2) I no longer think smoking pot is a good idea.