Good Tidings, Good Christmas.

It was the night before Christmas, my winter vacation my freshmen year of college. I had taken my first semester of University of Southern Maine in stride, tucking it under my belt and headed home to the snow-covered forests and hills of Waterford. Gazing out from my back porch, watching the silent snowfall over my field, I reflected on the past few months. I'd learned a lot in just one semester of college. A lot about classical theatre, about stagecraft, a lot about the Internet. I learned I had a Best friend in Milwaukee, and $1o for a handle of vodka was a worse decision at best and a best decision at worst. I taught myself the intricate origami of Zig-Zags. I formed hypotheses, performed experiments, collected data and reached conclusions on how fast a 1988 Mercury Tracer could drive from Portland to Oxford Hills at 3:00 am. I felt educated. I felt more grown up.

These ideas, they went to my head.

This story is one of "Firsts." This November was also the very first time I'd possessed a usable amount of cannabis. I'd been partaking for years before this, but thanks to college I came to acquire a bag of ganja. And it wasn't just any ganja. It was my ganja. A very unique feeling.

So. Late one fine night, not a creature was stirring, except for my cats. My Mom is a cat woman. My parents were nestled all snug in their beds, with visions of lower mortgage payments dancing in their heads. And mamma and my stepfather, and I in my cap, had let me enjoy a glass of wine with them. Another remarkable sign of my growing up. I was a true "young adult" now. They crept up to bed, and I waited patiently for a few hours. I know these two people well, and there's no way they will ever wake up past midnight for any reason besides bowel-driven ones. And I got to thinking. Surreptitious thoughts.

You see, I had brought my first bag home. My first time holding in my own house.

There were obstacles in my path, obviously, given my nature.

Obstacle Number One was simple and easily overcome with a lightblock gallon jug of Hood 2% milk, the hollow body of a black Bic pen, some precise incisions, insertions, tap water and aluminum foil.

The Second was a bit more difficult. I needed fire. My stepfather is the purest definition of a Cigar Man, but unfortunately to the extreme degree he does not use conventional lighters. We used to have one of those long candle lighters for the woodstove but after a thorough tossing of the kitchen and living room it's existence was doubted. I settled for the strike-anywhere matches over the stove. Desperate times, folks.

Third: Location. Not a huge deal.

I crept out the back door, quiet as a mouse, and trudged through the knee deep snow underneath the back deck where we stack our firewood. The outside world was beautiful. So there, with my makeshift milk gallon bong and strike anywheres, I flamed on.

The process was a tad tedious, but overall worth it. Nature and winter and a clear, crisp night. Breathtaking. The sky was crowded with stars. The moon was a opaque silver disk, a soft halo glowed around it. Magically, I recalled Cub Scouts knowledge. This halo meant it would snow, or just had. Lovely. Excellent.

Once finished, I chose to hide my construction underneath the giant snowbank covering our burn pile (you're truly from New England if you had a pile of unusable wood on your property for the specific purpose of a future bonfire). Back inside, I curled up on the couch with a blanket and bag of Ruffles to watch Comedy Central. Dennis Leary was hosting the Christmas show. He's always very upset but sure is a funny fuckin' little upset Irish guy. "Merry #@&%! Christmas." My stepfather ended up coming downstairs, unable to sleep. I was briefly worried but he was quiet, we laughed at the show, talked a little, and it was normal, so I brushed off the 'noids.

A beautiful way to spend Christmas Eve.

The next day was Christmas. My brother and I rose early to drive down to our fathers in Portsmouth. There was less snow in New Hampshire, but it's still a very nice little city. We spent a few nights there, then drove on back home to waste away our remaining vacation partying and chilling with our friends also home from school. We had part of the core group, Conman, Donkey and Jam Man, over for dinner one night. My mom was cooking up some spaghetti dinner, and Con Man was regaling us with tales of California. My stepdad was quite typically sitting in the living room slinging insults and side comments into the conversation whenever he could. We dished back on him, he does this a lot.

"Can you ask Travis where I can buy an 8-ball of coke?" He shouted to my mother.

"He doesn't know that," she responded very motherly.

"Yeah, sure," I played along, sarcasm at full volume. "All kids in college do drugs."

And the trap was sprung. I was too foolish to see.

"Oh," my mother cracked like a whip. "We know."

She reached under the kitchen counter and with a bang set down my Hood-Bic-Foil-Bong, in front of me and all my friends. They erupted into laughter. Praise the Lord dinner had not been served yet because I slammed my forehead into the table, and had we been eating I am positive I would have face-planted into my spaghetti, futilely attempting to hide like the mythical Awkward Ostrich of Shame.

"You were just telling us about that the other day," Jam Man burst. Even more laughter.

My mind was reeling. I needed to breath, I needed to cover somehow. I had to spin this. Couldn't blame the little brother, not with him right there and Jam Man's new evidence brought to light. Instead, on instinct alone, I animorphed from Ostrich of Shame straight into the soaring Eagle of Honesty.

"Mom, I've been smoking pot since I was 16."

And this is how my mother discovered my cannabis habit, after waking up, looking out at the backyard, following my deep, clear footprints to the burn pile and discovering my homemade bong on Christmas morning.