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Cannabis To The Rescue: Saving The Family Farm

Posted on  September 26, 2012 by  Site Admin

  Humboldt Stories "It's not Weeds, it's Real." By Sharon Letts Nick turned off Myrtle Ave onto Park Street, and down a dirt road. Caitlin had been living in a trailer on someone's property since leaving Jake. Today, they were traveling together to an historic apple orchard he was looking to restore, with an eye on good medicine. "Why shouldn't cannabis be grown with food," he argued to a circle of self-righteous, back-woods growers. "Why shouldn't farmers be allowed to include Cannabis and Hemp?" "Because they will throw your ass in Federal prison," someone responded to howls of laughter. Caitlin was waiting at the end of the road, smiling and waving as he pulled into the drive. "Forgive me for not inviting you in," she said, a little shy about her new digs. "The good news is, Jake is NOT inside!" "No worries, Caitlin," Nice countered quickly. Not wanting to add to the awkwardness. "How about them apples?" he winked, and they both shared a laugh. "Did you know there is a doctor that lives in this neighborhood with more than 100 varieties of apples on just one acre?" Nick informed, veering the conversation away from "Jake the Jerk," as he liked to call her old boyfriend. "I did not know that," Caitlin said, visibly impressed, and grateful for the change of topic. "They grow this close to the coast?" "Some do," he said. "I also read that one apple can produce many varieties, and because of this little known...

Humboldt Stories: Marijuana Trimming Is The New Social Circle

Posted on  September 18, 2012 by  News Admin

  "It's not Weeds, it's Real" By Sharon Letts Nick drove down Samoa Boulevard from Arcata onto the South Spit, and into the town of Manila, where Greg lived. Tonight Greg was paying $200 a pound, plus a bag of popcorn, for the most tedious, boring work in the industry.  Getting onto someone's list for trimming is all about relationships, trust, and if the group wants you there. For the hours are long and often run into the wee hours of the morning.  There was also the issue of vehicles in front of the house to finesse. Too many, too many days in a row, and red flags would be raised. Greg was a musician, so if you had an instrument you carried it inside, and, if anyone wanted to jam on a break, so much the better. Nick parked down the street and took his guitar from the back seat. In his backpack were the tools of the trade: one small bottle of olive oil (for prepping fingers against resin); one pair of incredibly sharp Fiskars trimming clippers; one tray with a lip; and a container to collect the popcorn nugs. There were several circles working... one around the kitchen table, another in the living room, and one small group hanging on the back deck taking a break with a bong. "Hey, Man." Greg said to Nick, getting up from a big chair in the living room, putting out his hand to shake, pulling it back, fast. "Kinda sticky,"...