He could feel the dull pain rising in the small of his back and sat upright on the padded bench, pulling back on the reins, “Whoa, Dasher, Dancer, Prancer and Vixen,” he said, pulling the reins hard, a sharp pain now shooting up from his lower back. “Easy does it, Comet, Cupid, Donner and Blitzen.”
They lighted on the roof of a small, modest collective in what used to be a home on a residential street, now a row of non-descript retail storefronts. A green cross was painted on the whitewashed gabled window in front, with the message “Health Served Here” written above.
“Ho, ho, ho,” it sure is good to see you! Santa said with a jolly, yet somewhat forced belly laugh. “The sciatica hasn’t reared its ugly head yet, but I fear it will be here soon if I don’t get just a wee bit more of that good medicine.
“Santa, not to worry,” the kindly woman said with a wink. “I have a high CBD tincture in a rather large bottle; enough Sativa cannacaps to keep you awake through Anchorage; and a few medibles just for insurance, or to enjoy with the missus when you retire back home.”
“And here’s a tub of salve for the reindeer,” she said, placing a gallon tub of salve on the floor of the sleigh. Would you like me to rub a little on their joints now?” she inquired.
“Oh, yes, thank you, they do need it about now,” Santa said. “And speaking of joints, do you have a minute? I feel this old frame needs to park itself by a fire.”
“Of course, Santa, the fire in the back kitchen is ready and my bong is on the table,” she offered. “I’ll be right down.
Santa set himself into an overstuffed chair by a wood stove and filled the bong from a mason jar with a label marked, “Seattle’s Finest,” chuckling to his self at the reference when his friend joined him.
“Glad you see the humor in these hard times in this legal State of Washington, Santa,” she said, a concerned look on her face. “Under the rules of I-502 I’m going to have to close my doors comes the New Year.”
“No!” Santa said, sending a waft of smoke out of his mouth and nostrils with a hard cough.
“Yes,” she replied, patting him on the back. “There are more than 200 collectives, large and small, throughout the city right now, but under the new regulations there will only be 21 allowed to remain open in city limits.”
“Well, I never!” he said. “How will people get their medicine? Do they realize the growing need, let alone the safety factor? Doesn’t that mean the black market will continue?”
“Yes, Santa, the black market will continue, people will still be persecuted, and it will be worse, because the people of this State will not be able to grow their own medicine. It’s the first right taken away from the people, under the guise of legalization. It means most of us will go back into hiding.”
Santa and his friend sat for a moment, passing the bong back and forth in silence while the old man felt the pain in his back dissipate.
“My pain is gone,” Santa said, sadly. “Will you still be here next year to help me?”
“God willing; it’s His plant,” she said, waving to the Jolly man, now sailing above the Space Needle, high above the legal town of Seattle.
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Editor’s note: Sharon Letts began her love of gardening in Southern California by her mother’s side, watching as she buried fish heads at the base of roses.
At 24, Sharon hung her shingle, “Secret Garden,” planting flower beds for dainty ladies. Gardening led to producing and writing for television with “Secret Garden Productions.”
Today Sharon continues to write about gardening and all that implies, advocating for the bud, and writing for many magazines, including DOPE (Defending Our Patients Everywhere).
She also pens “Road Trip: In Search of Good Medicine,” touring MMJ states, following the Green Rush.