When they met in 1968, both my parents lived “across the
bridge” as we often say in the Bay Area. Across the bridge can be any number of
options in and around San Francisco. In this case, it meant north of the Golden
Gate in Marin County. Both my parents were raised in San Francisco.
My family’s history in SF spans several generations. My
great-grandfather was a gardener in Golden Gate Park. And my Gramps survived
the 1906 earthquake at three years old. He also walked across the Golden Gate Bridge
the day it opened. Gramps (dad’s dad) was a strong, proud, Irish-Catholic San
Franciscan and in the Hurley family, there is a certain legacy in that. He
would tell us cousins (his grandkids) stories of prohibition… how his uncle
made gin in the bathtub for neighborhood sale and trade, and how the cops would
look the other way for a price, or regular delivery. Being Irish during a
prohibition? Gramps probably felt some sort of deep-seeded duty in the silent,
sloshy revolt.
My mom and dad were both San Francisco 1960’s hippies in
their own right before they met through mutual friends. Whatever you’re picturing
when I say “San Francisco 1960’s hippies” is probably about accurate… hairy
armpits and legs, minimal clothing and haircuts (although they both had shorter
hair, the 60’s was more about functionality than aesthetics), sugarless/meatless
household, anti-censorship of the arts, many protests, music festivals and
craft fairs, and yes, marijuana.
Dad even lived on hippie-friendly Haight Street during its heyday
in the 1960’s before starting his teaching career and family, and settling down
in Marin County.
My Boomer parents have been the epitome of reliability,
compassion, structure and responsibility. If they signed a contract, they
honored it precisely. If they agreed to volunteer, they showed up on time and
recruited friends and kids to join.
1971 would mark the year I was born, and the first of a
number of oddly foreshadowing events revolving around weed in my life. That
year, in 1971, a group of high schoolers in San Rafael, the city where we lived,
coined the term “420” to mark their meeting time to smoke weed after school. An
interesting connection, albeit completely “coincidental”.
There is not a time in my life when weed wasn’t around,
even as a kid. My parents were cautious, didn’t leave joints out for us to
stumble upon or anything. They didn’t smoke bong rips (bongs gained popularity
with GenX in the 1980’s). In general, they were not big partiers. But they would
enjoy a joint as much as, and as often as, a glass of wine or cocktail in the
evening. It was so normal in our house, I never thought anything of it! Neither
of my parents smoked cigarettes but some of their friends did.
To this day when I walk into a room filled with marijuana
smoke, it takes me back like opening a file cabinet of memories…
Just to help break another stoner stereotype, I’d like to point out for the record that although we moved to Sonoma County when I was 3 years old, I have A TON of memories of living in San Rafael. Who says stoners forget everything?
~ ~ ~
Thank you Sparc.co for the great reference article on the origin of 420!
Follow me on IG @norcalweedgal
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