Search Results: humboldt stories (49)


Humboldt Stories
“It’s not Weeds, it’s real.”
By Sharon Letts
“Did she say eight?” Caitlin asked, fidgeting with the coffee server.
“Eight-ish, I think she said. She talked so fast,” Nick laughed. “She’s New York all the way, you know? Manhattan, Dahling,” Nick mocked.
“I just hope we’re doing the right thing,” Caitlin said. “Seems like packaging and branding right now is putting the cart before the horse, so to speak. If Prop. 19 would have passed it wouldn’t be so much of a problem — maybe.”

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Sharon Letts

Humboldt Stories
By Sharon Letts
The reindeer slowed above Seattle and headed across Puget Sound to Kingston, where an old friend waited with a small container of medicine.
Santa adjusted his glasses, cleared the GPS, rubbed his lower back, and called out landing instructions to Rudolph: “The rooftop of Steve Elliott’s house,” he commanded.
Steve could be seen in the distance making his way up a ladder at the side of the house. It was a ritual he had gotten used to, but rarely shared with anyone. Some shit is just not worth repeating. 

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All photos by Sharon Letts

Humboldt Stories
“It’s not Weeds, it’s real.”
By Sharon Letts
Caitlin stopped and turned to look one more time at the bed she had shared with Jake for more than five years. Part of her felt a pang of sadness — of not wanting to leave — and that was an odd feeling, considering the neglect and abuse she had suffered in his care.
She picked up her pillow and put it under her arm. The bed looked empty and small. The room unfamiliar with her lovely things removed.
She would not miss the lifestyle of living in a grow house. Especially one in a tract house community where no one says hello — it was like living in a strange Twilight Zone episode where your house was quarantined off from the rest of the world. A neighborhood where you couldn’t chat over the picket fence and say, “Would you like to come in for a cuppa?” That is, unless it was understood the “cuppa” was a “bowl of,” with a wink.

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All photos by Sharon Letts

“It’s not Weeds, it’s Real.”
By Sharon Letts
Jake hung up the phone and turned to Lewis who was busy helping take down a room. “She’s raising the rent again. That’s $950 a month now. Three increases in just over a year.”
“So much for the great deal of $650 a month on Craig’s List,” Lewis said, picking up another large, black container and pulling the root ball out onto the floor. We tried to warn you, dude. Three, bedrooms just don’t go for $650 a month in Humboldt.”
The woman in question was a Humboldt slum lord, referred to with disdain as “Dragon Lady.” She was a pot plantation belle, reigning over a pot plantation rented out by the green, or how many plants you were physically able to grow per square foot.

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All photos by Sharon Letts
Trimming Sour Diesel

“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.

Sharon Letts

It’s not Weeds, it’s real
By Sharon Letts

The sound of Jake getting ice in the middle of the night startled Caitlin out of a sound sleep. It was 2:30 a.m., and as was her modus operendi, she lay there, unable to sleep, listening as the ice dropped into his bong one by one. She then followed the trail of his movements through sound as he puttered about, alone.
It takes a life together to have intimacy, and she was wanting.
Jake often stayed up late and slept half the day away. They were surrounded by redwoods, but she could count on one hand how often they had hiked together, let alone waked and baked together.

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All photos by Sharon Letts

Humboldt Stories
“It’s not Weeds, its real.”
By Sharon Letts
Lewis woke-up, rolled over, and sat up, pushing a half-eaten bag of chips away from the computer screen, knocking an empty can of Rock Star to the living room floor. 
The flashing icon on the screen told him that “Medford Mantis” was ahead again, with “Slayer II” a close third. 
“Take that damn wall down, rat bastard!” 
Peeling a piece of tin foil away from a corner of the window he could see it was light outside, but couldn’t tell if it was early morning or late night.
It took hours to regain his status. When he was satisfied he picked up the bong and fumbled for a lighter that worked.

North Coast Journal Blogthing

It’s not Weeds, it’s real.

By Sharon Letts

The property manager broke
it to her gently. The house she grew up in, the home she hoped would one day
help her through retirement was damaged by a grow operation she knew nothing
about. Of course, the property management people didn’t know either. No one

“That’s how it is,” she thought as she drove through her own
neighborhood. “All of these homes could be grow houses. You really can’t tell.”

Sharon Letts

It’s not Weeds, It’s real.
“Hi, I’m Caitlin and I’m a Stoner”
Story and Photos By Sharon Letts
Caitlin walked quickly through the living room, into the dining room, and back out through the kitchen, then back again.
“I should leave in 15 minutes,” she thought, and made one more loop around the house.
“No fucking willpower,” she said aloud, and without another thought, she went straight into the bedroom, took a small tray from the bookshelf, and sat on the bed.
On the tray sat a wooden box, and inside held a rolling machine, papers, lighter, ashtray, and a little jar of kief-rich trim.
The plastic rolling machine hurt the inside of her thumb as she rolled the device. Friends teased for her lack of hand-rolling-know-how. “You aren’t a stoner, Caitlin, you are a casual user,” they chided.

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Sharon Letts

It’s not Weeds, it’s real.
By Sharon Letts
Author’s note: The following text was taken in part from actual online blog comments from Humboldt County News posted after a home invasion went awry, December 2008, in Humboldt’s county seat of Eureka.
Homeboy circled the block. A man he’d seen earlier in the week tried to get his attention – to say hello. “Not in this lifetime,” he thought to himself, averting his eyes, circling around the block one more time.
Parking around the corner from the house, he turned the engine off, then acted like he was adjusting the radio, and lit a cigarette. Panning the houses in front of him, he noticed a curtain corner slowly being pulled back. 
“Chicken shit,” he said in the onlookers direction. “I don’t want your stupid-ass grow, fucker.”
When the curtain closed again Homeboy got out of the car and quickly disappeared around the block.
He was feeling stealthy, but anyone could guess what he was up to by the uniform he wore — a wanna-be gangsta-like ensemble of a D-G hoodie, pants falling down around his knees, and a baseball cap with “707,” Humboldt’s area code, sitting high atop his long, blond dreads.
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