Trending
An attentive reader of The Post-Journal responded to my column about the nighttime marauders on our deck -- the nocturnal animals. I mentioned that some friends in Russell, Pennsylvania, were being overwhelmed by skunks, and entire neighborhoods there reeked. Whoa -- I had never noticed that "skunk" and "stunk" are only one letter apart.
My reader's letter brought up a second subject - equally stinky. She commented on the pervasive skunk odor on a nice visit out of town. Her son informed her that all skunky odors aren't necessarily from the furry little black and white guy. It's from marijuana! Now that was an answer I did not expect.
I don't think the heavy, pervasive skunk odor I smelled along the highway north was from a pot smoker or two. In fact, that same spot of road was just as putrid coming home, four hours later.
But my reader's comment got me thinking. Back in the days when I was a stewardess for American Airlines, half of each cabin was designated for smoking. Passengers could not light up in the front section of first class or coach. I did pity, however, the non-smoking or last-minute passengers who unwittingly bought tickets in the aft section. As soon as the No Smoking sign was off, they were quickly surrounded by blue smoke. Smoking was so prevalent then that the tobacco industry supplied complimentary 4-packs of cigarettes on every meal tray.
In the mid '60s, the smoking section odors took a turn - I began to notice a heavy sickeningly sweet odor in the smoking sections. In fact, when we landed in New York, especially from San Francisco flights, I felt different. Despite the long workday, I felt lighter, smiley, ridiculously happy. Huh? When I finally realized why - I'm often a slow study - I felt I had to bid off the San Francisco trips. I felt compromised and perhaps not as safety ready as I needed for either a flight emergency or my drive home in New York rush hour. Never a smoker, I hadn't tried pot. Until one interesting night.
My late husband, Tom and I attended his 20th class reunion in Rochester. I wound up talking to a nice classmate from Philadelphia. Jim was a florist and I was interested in his business. He lit up a short, lumpy cigarette and offered me one. "No thanks. I don't smoke."
He responded, "You've never had MaryJane?" I had no idea what he was talking about. He explained and urged me to try one. I thought, well, I'm never going to pick up the habit, so why not find out what all the hoopla is about? I took a puff, and coughed. I did not know how to inhale. On the second puff, Tom walked up to us, looked at the joint in my hand and said, "What is this? Are you going to be a pothead?" He wasn't happy with either of us. "Jim, this is the mother of my young children." He stared at my hand as I ground the joint into the ashtray.
"I'm sorry," I said, "it was just a lark." Jim also apologized as Tom nodded and changed the subject.
Occasionally, we found ourselves at parties or functions where the smoking was heavy and that sweet smell found its way into the atmosphere. In graduate school we were labeled "square." It was OK with us. But none of those years of sniffing our surroundings produced skunk odor. The formula must have changed in the last few decades.
From my curiosity-driven research, it turns out that both the latter-day cannabis and the skunk's spray contain some of the same chemicals. To those who partake, today's skunk odor is verification of good quality. Ugh. And that same odor hangs on their clothes just as tobacco does - only stinkier.
I am, however, on board with marijuana's medicinal use. I have friends living with everyday pervasive pain. They use it in gummy form, helping with both the hurt and the grumpy attitude from being under so much daily duress. I wouldn't label any of them junkies - just realistic about their overbearing situation. What was that song a few years ago - "Don't worry, Be happy?"
I'm not there yet, hoping to never need it, but I have seen the benefit for those who require help. And if their doctors prescribe it, who am I to judge? All but nine states approve that use and I've learned that it's legal recreationally in 24 states.
And the skunks? Hey, as long as the stinky little Oreo-colored carnivores stay out of my backyard, I'll consider myself lucky. But now I won't be totally surprised if I sniff a little skunk at my next outdoor concert.
Marcy O'Brien can be reached at moby.32@hotmail.com