The Organic Oregano

San Francisco has the reputation of being one of the coldest places in the summer, but you would not have guessed it as my sister and I limped in our Sunday shoes behind our grandmother up yet another hill in the oppressive heat that Father's Day, 1976.

We were on foot in the City because of a series of what my mother would later refer to as “adventures.” While my sister and I struggled to keep up with our spry grandmother on those steep, simmering sidewalks, our mother and her best friend were somewhere over the Midwest, winging their way to to West Point to witness the friend's son graduate from the Academy.

The trip to San Francisco International Airport was uneventful. We walked the travelers to their gate and waved as their plane took off. Then we piled back into the station wagon and made our way into the City for some sightseeing.

The temperature was already in the upper 70s when Dad's “shortcut” through the Haight Asbury ground our plans to a halt. There was a bump, then an ominous rattling, then the engine sighed heavily before the car jolted to a stop. Dad cursed under his breath and got out.

“I don't know how it happened, but the transmission is half a block that way,” Dad growled when he returned.

Somehow, the tow truck driver found a garage that was open on a Sunday. Dad took one look at the mechanic's enlarged pupils and casually made sure his badge opened when he pulled out a handkerchief to mop his face.

“I've got to keep on eye on this nincompoop. Get the girls to a restaurant and keep them cool,” he told our grandmother. Then he turned to my sister and ordered, “Keep your sister near you, stay with your grandmother, and keep her from talking to everyone!”

The piercing sunshine kept the sidewalks mostly empty, even for such a big place. Grandma didn't seem to mind the hills or the heat as she sallied forth. We struggled to keep up. Suddenly, Grandma halted in front of a sign announcing a “smoke shop.”

“I need to get your father a birthday present,” she announced. “Do you think he would like a pipe?”

My sister took in a deep breath. “Grandma, remember what Daddy said,” she pleaded. “He really doesn't want us to do anything but find a restaurant.”

“Oh, fiddlesticks,” Grandma waved her hand. “This is perfectly safe. He forgets I raised him in this city. I know what I'm doing.” With that, she squared her shoulders and marched in.

Marie and I fretted on the sidewalk. “What do we do?” I whined.

“What Daddy said to do,” Marie sighed. “We stay with her and try to keep her from talking to weird people.” In a perfect imitation of Grandma, Marie squared her shoulders, yanked open the door, and went through. I shrugged and followed.

My eyes were still adjusting to the dimness as I bumped into Marie's back. Grandma was standing a a counter, speaking with two shirtless men. The air smelled musty and spicy at the same time. One of the men came over and bent down in front of us.

“Hey, little sisters,” he slurred. His eyes seem shimmer.“What brings you here? The Solstice?”

My sister grabbed my hand and mumbled a quiet, “Excuse me?”

“You know, the first day of summer,” the hippy giggled. “It's tomorrow. Longest day of the year, man.”

“Thank you for your help,” our grandmother interrupted. She took my sister's hand we left were soon back out in the brilliant heat.

Marie and I did not mention the shop the rest of that day, nor did we tell anyone until a few weeks later when we were seated around Grandma's table for our father's birthday. Mom kept sniffing the air.

“Bob, do you smell that?” she whispered over my head.

“I think it's whatever she's made for dinner,” Dad murmured back. “God knows what she's put in it.”

Grandma had been acting loopy all afternoon. Marie and I watched wide-eyed as she moved in slow motion around her crowded kitchen. Finally, we were all seated around the table. A beautiful cheesy lasagna, a huge green salad, and a pile of pungent garlic bread rested before us.

The lasagna had a weird smell, a little like cat pee and garlic. Mom sniffed her first bite and chewed it for a long time. She took a bite of her salad and dropped her fork, screwing up her face in disgust.

“Holy crap, Bob! It's pot!” she cried as she grabbed for my plate.

Dad started to open his mouth to protest, and then took a closer look at his plate. He picked out what looked like a dried clover flower from his salad, examined it for a minute, then closed his eyes sadly.

“Mom,” he started,” What's in all this?”

Grandma was gnawing happily on a piece of garlic bread. “Oregano,” she slurred. “It's organic.”

Dad took a slow breath in and looked up at the ceiling. “Where did you get this 'oregano'?”

Grandma swallowed and grabbed another piece of bread. “My, this is good,” she said. “I could eat a horse today! I found it in a shop in the City.”

“I think the girls have had enough,” Mom said as she gathered up all our plates.

Nothing else was said until Dad opened his present from his mother, a beautiful hand-blown glass “water pipe.”

At that point, Dad learned that his mother had taken his daughters into a head shop to purchase a bong on that hot day. The two hippies running the shop were so delighted with us they had thrown in a dime bag of Humboldt County's finest “herb” for free.

Dad never admitted to the Evidence Clerk where the marijuana and paraphernalia came from.

Word Count: 990