My Dad's Green Fog

     Okay, I'm giving you fair warning that this is body humor, maybe vulgar, and definitely crude, but the embarrassing moments of being human gave birth to humor, if you have a sense of it. So, if you are offended by this post, I gave you fair warning. And if you are offended--lighten up!

     Before I ever knew a thing about pot, and the literal green fog that those who toke it make, my Dad was the creator of the only Green Fog I had ever heard of until I was 19 years old. Let me tell you a bit about Dad. He was a Texan, from generations of Texans. He was raised on biscuits and gravy for breakfast and beans for lunch and dinner with whatever fruit or veggie relatives could grow. He loved his coffee thick and black. His favorite sandwiches were baloney and peanut butter. He ate garlic on everything, and lots of it, except for the peanut butter. He mostly wore overalls and long-sleeved snap up or button up cotton shirts, sometimes he'd were jeans, but belts didn't always hold up his britches very well. He was a collector of anything he thought might be of some use. And he had an aversion to most types of soap. He was old school when it came to baths, once a month, maybe once a year was fine, with a little bit of washin' in the morning. He was a mechanic and a tinkerer and loved being outside in the heat. Didn't mind a good sweat.

     My first memory of Dad's Green Fog was the night he took Mom, my brother Doug and me to the drive-in to see--I don't remember--but it could have been James Bond, John Wayne, Disney or some cheesy Dracula movie. We had beans and hot dogs for dinner. The windows were rolled up so that we could hear the mono sound speaker more clearly. Doug and I were in the back seat. Dad let one rip. At first we all laughed at the sound. It was a classic--what every whoopy cushion hopes to produce when it becomes the practical joke of some kid or grandpa. Then, we gagged when the odious stench hit our nostrils. Tears squeezed from our eyes as our laughter turned into uncontrollable hysterics. This was the worst kind of laughing gas. We began to roll down the windows. Back then we had a Studebaker, with no power windows, but I don't think I've ever seen a power window roll down so fast as our little arms did that night. After we were able to finally speak, we begged to be allowed to sit up on the roof of the car. Dad had to say yes. He had exposed us to the toxic bean gas heavily loaded with garlic fumes. From that night on, my brother and I either sat up on top of the car or brought lawn chairs to the drive-in because Mom always forgot and fixed beans and hot dogs before the movie.

    The second memory of Dad's Green Fog B was on Saturday, after he had some home from working the night shift at Navajo Freight Lines. At the time we had two Basenji dogs, Kufu and Fala. Fala usually found a spot near Mom to park, but Kufu owned the coach, that is when Dad didn't claim it and this morning Dad was sitting in Kufu's spot, so Kufu sat at Dad's feet. Dad kicked off his shoes. My brother and I were watching Saturday morning cartoons, when we were suddenly hit with a wave of what smelled like nasty, moldy cheese and rotting corpse. We turned to see the squiggly hot odor lines rising out of Dad's shoes and from his socks. We pinched our noses closed and whined. Kufu, however, loved the smell so much that he buried his nose in one of the shoes. He rolled over on his back doing the happy dog. Then he rolled back over and stuck his nose in the shoe again. He sniffed deep. It was the first time I'd ever seen and heard a dog sneeze, and sneeze, and sneeze, and sneeze! My Dad laughed so hard he cried, and my brother and I rolled around on the floor giggling.

    The third memory of Dad's Green Fog C was after Dad had been working in the yard. He pulled off his shirt and tossed it onto the back of a chair. He always wore an undershirt, the classic short sleeved, white t-shirt. His back was bothering him, so he laid down on the floor. This was a chance for my brother and I to tickle him. We crawled all over him, trying to find his tickle spots, and when we found one, he'd laugh then grab hold of us and put us under his arm in a vice. His pungent armpits were a torture trap. We squirmed, cried and laughed, trying to get away. Then when we did, our hair would smell like his pits. We thought it was funny, but when Mom would catch a whiff of us, we would get a bath in Mr. Bubble to wash the stench out. Now that I think about it, the smell of my Dad's pits, a skunk and Pot are very similar, except that my Dad's odors or the skunks never gave me a headache.

    As Dad grew old, his achievements in stench became legendary. Now that he's gone, I wish he were around surrounded by his own personal brand of Green Fog to stink up the room and the furniture. I miss him. He was eccentric, but he was a good dad in the most important areas of life. He taught us to love God, believe in the saving work of Jesus, provided as best he could, and studied the bible with us long before we ever entered a church door. I love him.