Rudolf used the power of his bright red nose to sniff-out the best place for Santa to kick it, and motioned to a rather large Victorian – a painted lady with a wide, brick fireplace.

“Nice one, Rudy,” Santa said, turning toward the massive pile of red velvet bags, grabbing a sack of gifts, and easing his round frame out of the sled.

Once inside, Santa emptied the contents of the bag under the Christmas tree, glanced at the proverbial plate of fresh baked cookies and tall glass of milk sitting on the hearth, and sat down on an over-stuffed chair by the fireplace.  A brightly colored tray decorated with his image sat on table.

“There I am, ho, ho, ho!” he whispered to the family dog, now cocking its head with curiosity of the big guy in the red suit. “Here’s a cookie for you,” he said, handing the dog a treat. “I’ve eaten enough cookies to last me a lifetime,” he laughed. “Ho, ho, ho!”

The tray held a small pair of scissors, with a mason jar of Humboldt’s finest bud. Nearby, Santa eyed a bong.

“Helloooo,” he smiled. “Ho, ho, ho… Just one taste shouldn’t hurt,” he said, winking at the pooch, now enjoying a second cookie.

Santa looked around, picked up the scissors, and began cutting up the bud. He leaned in and inhaled the fragrant aroma of freshly cut cannabis. “Nice,” he smiled, packing the bong.

After several bowls full, Santa felt pleased and relaxed and decided to let the reindeer outside rest a bit more.

Some time passed when he heard someone stirring from one of the upstairs bedrooms.

“Damn!” Santa said, sitting upright, but it was too late.

At the top of the stairs the patriarch of the family and owner of the tray leaned over the banister ledge, squinting in the dim light, unable to believe his eyes. Santa was pinching his stash!

“Ho, ho, ho!” Santa said to the owner of the finest bud Santa ever had the pleasure of enjoying. He really wasn’t sure if this was the right thing to say, but didn’t think it could hurt the situation any.

“Well, ho, ho to you too,” the man said, making his way down the stairs, sidling up to Santa who had just loaded the bong with yet another helping. “Looks like you are making yourself at home,” he added looking at the pile of gifts under the tree. “Thanks for the swag, Santa. I suppose some nice Humboldt bud is the least I can do. Mind if I join you?”

“Oh, yes, please do,” Santa responded, handing the bong over to its rightful owner. “What do you call this maker of magic?”

“It’s called ‘Trainwreck,’ better take it easy, Santa,” the man said. “It has an incredible amount of THC.”

“Is this indoor?” Santa inquired.

“Outdoor, organic, actually,” the man responded, surprised at Santa’s level of knowledge.

“Excellent,” Santa said. “Last year Rudolf’s nose took me to a house in McKinleyvile, and I swear there was mold in it – made me feel just awful until I could get over to India for a dose of herbal tummy tea. But, that’s another story. Santa could feel himself trailing in the conversation. He tended to get a bit chatty when stoned – something Mrs. Clause wouldn’t let him forget.

The two men sat and passed the bong back and forth a while, until Santa heard the faint sound of restless reindeers.

“Well, this sure has been a pleasure,” Santa said getting up out of the chair with some effort. Mind if I take a rolled one for the road?

“Not at all, Santa,” the man smiled, rolling him a fatty.  “Safe trip!” he called to him, watching out the window as the sled lifted up and off into the Humboldt sky. He could hear Santa singing, “Merry Christmas Humboldt, and to all a good night.”

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The newspaper decrying the night before’s election results lay on the table. Greg walked past without looking.

“Doesn’t mean a damn thing to me,” he said to himself.

The morning ritual of sitting on the toilet and cutting up the morning bud never altered. It was always the same. Morning after morning, day after day, month after month, year after year, and no vote would change that. The little metal poker used to clean the stem of the bong was thick with resin as he ran it in and out of the stem and bowl. A black layer of dry resin lined the bottom of the tray from years of scraping bud into a little mound for the bowl.

Friends urged him to get a 215 card, but he declined on principal.

“No one should have to pay money to prove they need the herb to be well,” he’d say. “It’s a weed for the masses, and it knows no prejudice – no religion, no color, no politics. Damn them for trying to legitimize something that’s been the only sane go-to in my life for the past 30 years.”

He justified his usage of cannabis to no one. No apologies, no regrets.

Greg packed the bowl of the bong with bud, fired up the lighter and took a long drag.

After smoking a few bowls full, he put the tray away, made his bed and headed for the kitchen.

All his rituals were the same, get a bowl from the cupboard, fill it up with cereal, grab a banana, a napkin, and head for the couch. Rather than turning on the news this morning, he decided to watch last night’s taped Flight of the Concords.

Once his breakfast was set out around him he moved his tray to the living room and began the process, once more, of cutting up bud for the bong.

“So what if it passed – what if it didn’t,” he said to no one in particular. “My life won’t change. I’ll still be respectful of my neighbors, won’t blow smoke in their faces. Especially not the little kids in the neighborhood. No one had to pass a proposition to tell me that. But you can bet people will still be drinking alcohol in front of kids, falling down drunk, getting violent. What a stupid world we live in.”

The few small grows he had in his little greenhouse would be commonplace in a world of condoned personal use. The only difference would be a lack of paranoia. While others crashed cars and became dismal stars on Cops drunk from alcohol, he would continue his laid-back life as a stoner to get through his days harming no one.

“‘Under the influence’ means alcohol,” he would rant to who ever would listen. “When they pull you over, it’s always about being drunk, not high. Alcohol rots your body, makes you do stupid things. If someone were to create alcohol today it would be outlawed as a poison – too dangerous and destructive to be legal.”

Nothing would change for him. His life would go on like it always had, legal pot, or not. Greg stopped the ranting in his head, turned to his tray, began cutting up more bud, and cued up South Park from the night before.

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Eye Correspondent

Caitlin sat up in bed and stretched. Her feet were cold as she stepped onto the wooden floor, and made a mental note to get a throw rug in town.

It was a sunny Saturday morning. After a series of days filled with patchy clouds and wind, Caitlin welcomed the day and tied the curtain back from the window.

She could see Nick in the distance checking the apples. Soon they would be pressing them for cider, and Caitlin would be experimenting with apple recipes, but today was a Farmer’s Market day. After a series of not so sunny days, this day was a gift.

Farmers Market on the Plaza  was more than a place where local farmers came to sell and fortunate customers loaded up on the best produce and products this side of the redwood curtain, it was a social event.

On the town green surrounding the statue of President McKinley, there were jugglers and dancers – often tossing flaming batons into the air. One could easily bump into friends, family and co-workers.

Caitlin loaded up her basket with beautiful herbs and a jar of berry jam from Flying Blue Dog Farm, squash and zucchini from Warren Creek farms, an arm full of flowers from Flora Organica and a small bag full of fragrant garlic from Trident Lightning Farm down in Phillipsville.

Nick headed over to Celebration Catering’s booth, loaded up on Tamara’s handmade tamales and got comfortable on a blanket on the green.

It didn’t take more than five minutes for him to be approached. The young man walking toward him was your typical Plazoid – twenty-something, blond dreadlocks, patchwork pants, bare feet, and a hat that appeared to be made from an African country’s flag.

“You looking for the guy?” he asked Nick.

“The guy?” Nick responded, disinterested, but not completely rude. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out what the guy was doing.

The Plaza had long been known for a landing ground for the “new migrant worker,” young wanderers coming through Humboldt looking for work in the covert cannabis industry.

The Plaza was a networking ground. Here you could find work, a place to crash, handouts, food and pot.

“The guy, over there,” the young man said, gesturing toward a similarly-garbed clump of sitabouts.

“You looking for the kind?”

Just for fun, Nick asked what kind of “something” he was peddling.

“Outdoor, organic,” the young man replied.

“Good answer,” Nick said with a laugh. “Because I don’t think you could sell anything less at Farmers’ Market, than outdoor organic.”

“Very funny,” the young man said, dropping his laid-back stance.  “Later,” he replied, walking away.

Nick could almost make out an East Coast accent. “Maybe Boston,” he thought, watching the young entrepreneur sidle up to yet another prospective Plaza patron.

Again he saw the rumpled boy making his pitch and pointing toward the cohorts on the corner, but he doubted that the kid represented anyone but himself.

Caitlin sat down on the blanket with her bounty of Humboldt’s finest. “What did he want?” she asked.

“Peddling outdoor organic.” Nick replied.

“Good place for that,” she said.

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Eye Correspondent

Jill put a scoop of beans into the grinder.

“What’ll we have this morning?” Andrea asked.

“Peru Perla Andina Microlot, from Sacred Grounds.”

“Not from Sacred Grounds – they brought it to us,” Jill chided.

“Alright, Peru. It’s from Peru,” Jill said grinding the beans. “But it was chosen by our very own, Sacred Grounds, and roasted to perfection in Humboldt just for us.”

“So, what’s the adventure today?” Andrea inquired, removing the tray from the kitchen cupboard. “How’s your pot biking tour of Arcata coming along?” Andrea set the tray on the table and began cutting up bud.

“I’ve decided to call it, ‘Pot Peddlers,’ what do you think?” she asked.

“That’s funny, what’s the first stop?”

Here’s the list and a map,” Jill said, spreading a map of Arcata on the kitchen table. “How does Cafe Brio on the Plaza sound? I mean, there are so many places we could start, but doesn’t a Croissant Bread Pudding with some of those Neukom peaches sound yummy? They are in season now.”

“I want the homemade muesli with peaches,” Andrea said, passing the pipe to Jill. “Let’s start at Brio, for sure.”

“After Brio, we ride over to Humboldt Patient Resource Center on Sixth Street to see what’s new – maybe a sativa for energy – then to the Co-op for munchies, then the Marsh. Or we can make our way out to the North Jetty down Samoa Boulevard, depending on how your energy holds up,” Jill said.

“That may be a full-day trip – pun intended,” she laughed.

Andrea laughed along, and said, “The marsh is all I may have energy for. If you write one up for the Jetty, a big meal at the Cookhouse would be in order.”

“I suppose riding bikes home from the Cookhouse would be warranted, but a cab home might be more realistic after a pig-out like that!”

More laughter ensued, as the couple made plans for the day ahead of them.

“What about another trip up to the Community Forest? Where ever we end up, I’ll bring my camera. Can I shoot Arcata Scrap and Salvage across the street from the Marsh? Maybe make a list for picture-taking too?”

“Good thinking,” Jill made notations on the list. “I need to start making another list of things to bring, things to do, to see…”

“Binoculars, blanket, sunscreen, water bottles, hat, papers or pipe?” Andrea asked.

“It’s up to the person, I think,” Jill said. “Maybe rolling joints ahead of time is the best thing – less to pack, less to haul home. After the Marsh or the Jetty, I think the tour should end up at Scoop back in town, what do you think?

“Scoop, for sure – ending the day with more of Neukom’s peaches in ice cream!” Andrea said.

“Ice cream, for sure!” Jill agreed. “Can’t get enough of his peaches! But, I think the tour should end up at the Finnish Country Sauna.”

“What about a massage by a 215-friendly therapist?” Andrea offered.

“Great, I’ll have to do some research on that one. So much of this is don’t ask, don’t tell right now,” Jill added. “Maybe all I can do is suggest, or make these little tours just for us until the world is ready?”

“Will the world ever be ready?” Andrea said, loading up the pipe one last time.

Sounds like a good day ahead of us,” Jill said, packing up the papers and some bud in a small, zippered pouch. “Who knew having a 215 card could be such an adventure?”

Note: This week’s story was inspired by the travels of journalist and publisher of online zine PotAppetit.com, Ed Murrieta, currently touring the Green Triangle and beyond in search of 215-friendly establishments and cool places to hang-out.

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James hung up the phone and turned to his housemates, “She’s raising the rent again. $950 a month now. That’s three times in just over a year.”

“So much for the great deal of $800 a month on Craigslist,” house mate, Amy said with a chuckle.

“We knew what it was all about when we got into her apartment building,” Doug chimed in. “She’s a slumlord, a pot plantation belle – and she knows we can grow more. She knows we will grow more. That’s the unspoken deal.”

“We’ll have to put another light in the laundry room,” James thought out loud.

“The thing is, she takes advantage,” Doug said, beginning to whine. “How much is Stephanie and Liz growing next door? They have three rooms now and the garage. And they didn’t start out in the apartment, like us.”

“They’ve been in the neighborhood for five years this fall,” Amy responded. “They didn’t have to go into the apartments because ‘dragon lady’ knew they were experienced growers.”

“I heard they are paying more than $1,500 a month now in rent to her,” Doug said.

“What her story again?” Amy asked.

“She’s fifth generation Eureka,” Doug explained. “Her family were lumber barons, but she couldn’t or didn’t continue the tradition. Instead she divided her land, built that apartment building, then these crappy homes, and is charging everyone to grow.”

“So much for renter’s rights,” James laughed. “At least we don’t have a landlord we have to hide from.”

“I wouldn’t mind it so much if the plumbing wasn’t so bad,” Amy said. “I like the neighbors, and you don’t feel so paranoid here – at least everyone knows what everyone else is doing, right?”

“I guess it’s better than Linda’s situation in Arcata,” Doug said. “Yeah, she gets the house to herself, but her landlord is a slave driver. Since limits were raised he’s told her to grow more too. She can’t sleep in the bedroom anymore, that’s what I heard. With all the fans going in the other rooms, you can hardly hear yourself think.”

James was already measuring the laundry room for space. Amy and Doug began dragging supplies outside that had been stored in the room.

“We’ll need to get a shed for the yard now,” James said. “Two lights, pots, soil, fans, plywood, wiring – another humidifier. This is going to cost us.”

Outside, Amy and Doug stopped and listened to the collective hum of the neighborhood’s energy usage. In the evening mist the capacitors at the top of the electrical poles sparked and sizzled while the neighborhood’s lights dimmed and lit up again in a wave.

“And, we are adding two more lights to this circus,” Doug said to no one in particular.

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“Four in the morning,” Marcy said, jumping out of bed.

“It’s the barn,” Joe said, grabbing his pants and boots.

By the time they arrived the damage was done. The new alarm system notified the police who showed up seconds later.

“That was quick,” Joe said to the officer getting out of his car.

“Looks like the bad guys were quicker,” the officer said inspecting a large hole in the side of the barn.

The vandals had driven a farm truck through the barn wall. It looked like a crow-bar was taken to the vault room, but they couldn’t budge it. The grow room, however, was a mess.

“It’s legit, 215,” Joe said to the officer, trying to appease his surprise. “We have insurance.”

“You have insurance for your grow room?” the officer said, even more surprised.

“Yeah, it’s a new thing this year,” Joe replied. “Looks like we got it just in time, huh?”

“They left the plants – a month from harvest, go figure,” Marcy said under her breath. “All the equipment’s gone,” she yelled.

Ninety-nine soon to be harvested plants in full bud lay smashed on the floor.

“What’s the value of the equipment in here?” the officer asked, stepping into the room within the barn.

“Around fifty thousand,” Joe said. “That includes lights and the watering system. We have an inventory list, per the insurance company – everything should be covered.”

“You have inventory inside that vault?” the officer asked.

“Yeah, the insurance company advised us to install that metal door. A video camera, watering system in case of fire, inventory lists – even the cycle of the plants are recorded. See how close we are to harvest?” Joe said, holding up a branch heavy with furry, purple buds. “The clones aren’t covered – that was our choice. But, these are because they are near market-time when we have the most to lose and no time to recoup this crop.”

“Man, you have a real business here.” the officer said, scratching his head.

“Well yeah, man,” this is our subsidy so we can ranch, you know?” Joe responded, intent on enlightening this man. “You know my dad up the road, you know my grandfather and his dad before him homesteaded this land. You think I can keep this going the way ranching is today? This crop insures our life as we know it on this ranch.”

“You guys going to be alright with this today, you want some help?” the officer said, softening.

“If all my paperwork is in order, which I think it is, we should be up and running again within 45 days – but, thank you for offering. We appreciate it,” Marcy said, putting her cell phone in its holster.

“That was our personal carrier. It seems there was an exclusion for any growing of marijuana on the property,” she said.

“Where does it say that in the policy?” Joe asked, dismayed.

“The claims department said it was under health hazards, and that growing or selling medical marijuana falls under what they called this ‘exclusion,’” she said.

“I hear that all the time. No one wants to tell their landlord, their insurance carrier, no one. How can anyone run a business like that? And you are a legal 215 – posted right there,” the officer said, pointing to the wall. “Well, I give you an “E” for effort,” he said, walking toward his patrol car to leave. “If you guys need help, let me know. I can have a whole posse here in an hour. Keep up the good work.”

For more on Joe and Marcy in Ferndale, see Behind the Curtain No. 6

Note: The information gathered came from an actual case settlement from Statewide Insurance Services, the only carrier covering legal 215 medical marijuana grows in the country. It’s important to note that only detached grow rooms are covered, not those inside a dwelling or other mixed-use building.

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She chose this parcel for the south-facing gently sloping hillside, the tree-line of privacy above (protecting her from helicopters and poachers), but most of all, she landed here all those years ago for the beauty of it all.

In another month the babies raised in her greenhouse would go into the ground. Six varieties this year, three for bagging, three for other uses.

Five acres would be planted with friends, family and the occasional “wandering worker,” as she called them – folks who kept in touch and knew when to show up.

It was her 32nd year of being a “Pot Farmer,” as her family called her. “I’m a farmer,” she insisted. “Selling to dispensaries is a noble business. People need this medicine.”

Hell, she needed the meds too. An automobile accident years ago left her with a bad back, and subsequent chronic pain. “Take these,” the doctor said, handing her a sample of opiates. “Will I get addicted?” she asked.

“Do you want pain, or relief?” he replied, one hand on the doorknob.

“This was her only option?” she thought at the time.

She took the pills for about a month when a friend brought over a bag of pot.

“Isn’t that illegal?” she asked her friend, choking on the first hit.

“You want to be addicted to pain killers with no life to speak of?” her friend countered. “You’ve done nothing in days.”

That was a very long time ago. Her pain was under control, and she felt good about her work.

Last fall was tough, though, she had to admit. The price of the pound was dropping steadily, and she was now looking into making tinctures and salves for the new “emerging pot market.”

At this time in her life she was too tired to try new things, but she knew it was necessary if she wanted to keep this life she had in this beautiful place. “Times they are a changing,” she remembered Dylan singing. It was still true.

Lily walked the length of the field to be planted, with her dogs running beside her. The soil was loamy and good, if the rain would ease up and let Spring in, it would be a good year.

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“It’s the economy, stupid!” Eric responded, quoting former President Bill Clinton’s 1992 campaign strategist, James Carville.

“That’s right, it’s all about money right now,” Jake continued. “The state needs the tax dollars of the grow industry, so that’s a given. Smokers will be voting, not growers. I’d like everything to remain the same, and keep getting three to four thousand a pound, but it’s not going to happen. The prices will drop, the majority of indoor grows will shut down because they won’t be able to afford the $1,000 it takes to grow a pound.”

Eric looked down at his hands, stained with resin. He and Caitlin had been up late again fertilizing and trimming. He couldn’t imagine doing this work for less than $3,000 a pound.

“I heard someone compare it to the television industry in Southern California,” Eric said. “They were saying the Feds added up Humboldt’s grows to something like, $14 billion a year. Just think, if the entertainment business should close down for some crazy reason.”

“That’s not going to happen,” Jake countered.

“Yeah, but just think about when legalization hits and all the small growers disappear,” Eric said. “The large growers and even corporate growers will, no doubt, step in. They say more than 30,000 people are employed some way by the grow market up here – not counting growers. What will happen to them?”

Jake and Eric sat silently, watching people go in and out of the hydroponics shop. A steady flow of customers entered and left the shop with fertilizers, soils, and hardware.

The grow shop was just off the Plaza in Arcata. A pricey location in full view. When its doors opened it caused quite the stir.

“Why put it out there for everyone to see?” growers complained. But, this was life in Humboldt as everyone knew it. And no one was growing tomatoes indoors, that was a given.

“If the entertainment business was set to fold in Los Angeles, don’t you think the state would see that coming and plan to do something to help?” Eric continued. “Would FEMA (Federal Emergency Management Agency) step in with emergency aid? Because that’s what will happen up here. You think there’s too many stragglers on the Plaza now? Just wait.”

Jake looked down at his hands and slowly began to rub the resin from his fingers. “My neighbor has a full-time, legit job, but it’s minimum wage,” Jake said, beginning to understand the impact of what was to come. “She has a degree in wildlife management, but the job she landed doesn’t pay the bills, so she trims to subsidize. If she lost her trim jobs, she’d have to leave the county, that’s for sure.”

“And, that’s what I’m talking about,” Eric said. “When you start to think about all the worker-bees who subsidize by working in the grow world, that’s when it hits home. Your friend shops at local stores, buys food from the Co-op, takes her dog to the vet. Do a paper-trail on anyone working in the grow industry – not the growers, but the workers, and you can see what it will mean to the economy up here. It will be a disaster beyond any depression this country has ever seen.”

The two young men got out of the car and headed into the shop. “What’s first on the list?” Jake asked.

“Netting and stakes” Eric answered, opening the door for Jake.

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“Yes, we have Kush,” she responded to an age-old question. “Woody Kush? No, I believe they grow that out 299 way for Mr. Harrelson. Yes, he does have very good taste. Would you like to book a tan in one of our two glow rooms? Would you like a tray of treats in the room? We do have Royal Kush, Bubba Kush, Master Kush… Romulan, rolled? Yes, one or two? Two it is.” Caitlin jotted down the order. “Sorry, we’re only open in the evening. Great, Friday, 8 o’clock. And a bottle of Moonstone Crossing’s Nebbiolo – yes, we have the 2004. OK, thanks for thinking of us for your tan and bake. see you Friday! Bye-bye.”

A customer roasted in the SoHum room tanning while another one waited in the living room for his turn under the lights.

She had just 10 minutes to ready the College Cove  room, and was beginning to wish Jake would return from picking up the laundry at Emerald City Laundromat in Arcata.

“Thank goodness they fluff and fold!” she said to herself.

Since she and Jake transitioned their grow room to a “glow room,” business was booming. Who knew? “That ad in the Eye paid off, even though it felt so weird writing a check to them,” Jake said when the calls started pouring in.

“And we thought the silliest ad in the North Coast Journal was dropping off old grow soil at Freshwater Farms,” she thought.

Caitlin glanced at the clock, entered the College Cove glow room and removed the tray of half-eaten Cypress Grove Chevre’s Humboldt Fog, a seeded Brio Breadworks baguette and a roach of O.G. Kush, better known as “Ogre.”

She placed  a newly replenished wooden tray on the table with a custom order, called in by the customer now waiting in the living room. “Can I please have the pipe and bud package with Mr. Nice?” the lady requested over the phone.

Caitlin always threw in a pack of matches with “Humboldt Bake” printed on the cover. “That should do it,” she said looking around the lushly planted room.

She had learned long ago what a great tan you could get in here, and was happy to share it with others. But, no time to waste, customers were waiting and the phone wouldn’t stop ringing.

“Hello, Humboldt Bake! Yes, this is the place to tan your Kush,” she laughed with the caller.

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“Honey, wake up, Oliver needs to go outside.” a voice said from the bathroom.

“You let him out,” Jill said, rolling back over and hitting the snooze button a second time.

“Good morning, baby,” Andrea said, leaning over and giving Jill a kiss on the cheek. “Come on, coffee.”

Once in the kitchen Jill went through the morning ritual of grinding the coffee beans, pouring the grounds into a filter, and waiting as the aroma filled the kitchen.

“Mmm, Kinetic Coffee,” she said, closing her eyes and inhaling deeply.

Andrea took a wooden box out of the pantry cupboard, sat down and began the ritual of cutting up the buds, packing the weed into a pipe and waiting for Jill to bring coffee to the table. “Ah, organic, grown outside in the sun,” Andrea said, closing her eyes and putting a large bud to her nose.

“That’s not funny,” Jill said. “Crack is bad!”

“That’s what it’s called. I can’t help it,” Andrea said, laughing, passing the pipe to Jill. “Are you going to get your 215 this week?”

“For what, relaxing?” Jill laughed, paused, and took a hit of the joint. “Oh yeah, doctor, I need to chill.”

“Tell them you are suffering from stress,” Andrea offered.

Jill looked at the clock. “I think there’s time for a walk this morning,” she said to Oliver as he danced with joy. “I’ll leave the creative process of acquiring a 215 to you, Ms. Chronic Pain.”

“Don’t get me started about my pain,” Andrea countered. “You should be legal.”

“I know, I’m sorry. Just don’t get me started about the $150 annual renewal fee.  Wait, have we had this conversation before?”

“See you tonight,” Andrea said, giving Oliver a pat and Jill a kiss before the two went out the door.

Jill headed up 14th Street to the forest. It was a beautiful day in Arcata.

Andrea pulled the car into her parking space. She looked in her rear view mirror and could see a well-meaning citizen walking quickly toward her car.

“Morning Andrea,” the woman smiled. “Did you see the headline? What are we going to do about this?”

The woman was carrying a copy of the Arcata Eye with details of an indoor grow bust on the front page.

“Good morning, Lucy, we’re working on it,” Andrea said, getting out of her car.

“They are ruining our neighborhoods!” the woman exclaimed, waving the paper above her head.

“I know, Lucy,” Andrea said, grimacing as she opened the door to City Hall.

“By the way, dear, how are you feeling? How’s that pain?” the woman asked.

“I’m doing alright,” Andrea said. “It’s under control. Thank you for asking.”

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