I saw my dad on Sunday. He’s eighty-six and a little out of it at times, but he’s still plenty smart and generally not doing so bad. Especially considering the hat he was wearing.
“Um, is that a pot plant on my dad’s hat?” I asked the woman who helps take care of him.
“Yes, it’s ganja!” she said, cheerfully. She’s from the islands, so she knows what she’s talking about. Seems like she’s been wheeling him everywhere in that cap. For a year now.
“Who got it for him?” I asked.
“Your mother,” she said.
Hmmmm.
I called my mom.
She told me she had a pair of pants to return to some discount-type store; the place wouldn’t give her cash, so she decided to pick up a few things instead. Including this bargain $1.50 ganja hat. “Mom, what did you think that design was?” I asked. “I thought it was a maple leaf, like on the Canadian flag,” she said.
I pondered the hat. What the heck, I thought. I mean, I don’t want anyone mistaking my dear old dad for a weed dealer, I wouldn’t let my mom buy ones for the kids, and I’m not condoning ganja or anything, but there’s something to be said about being the hippest eighty-six-year-old in the whole hood.
