Revisionism

Grandpa shrugged when the feds at the kitchen doorsaid the pigpen weeds were marijuana,and they were there to cut them down and burn them."Got lots more weeds—feel free to cut them, too."

Marijuana was in the news a lotwhen I first heard this story. Momand I laughed at her father's innocence,briefly united in patronizing parents.

Years later when she told it, she paused and added,"But Dad did have terrible arthritisin his hands, and I wouldn't bethe didn't know what he had growing there."

And suddenly I saw the wooden boxwith the slotted roller in the top,cigarette rolling machine, the knob we'd turnto send a crayon down to the waiting tray.

Of course everybody rolled their ownin the Depression, nothing damning there.But I felt history cough, twist in my hand,watched my solid mother grow translucent,

capable of recasting legend, fact.The last time I heard it, she concluded,"And you know, I wouldn't care to betit wasn't my mother who called those agents in."