Santa visits The Funky Skunk in County Cork, Ireland

This story originally ran in The Green Lens, Ireland & Weed World Magazine UK

As the reindeer took a break along the cliffs of the Pembrokeshire Coast National Park, Santa looked out over the Celtic Sea, to the State of Eire, and County Cork to the South, where he was hoping to find relief for his aching back.

The trip around the globe this year was not easy, with the highly contagious virus COVID raging from country to country. 

More than one home had a sign posted on its roof with a note asking Santa to leave the packages on the front stoop - with kind requests to not enter the home. Some had left the traditional offering of cookies and milk on the doorstep. Making a short rest by the hearth non-existent.

Reaching inside his coat into a special hidden pocket sewn behind his breast pocket, he pulled out a small bottle of tincture, now nearly empty. Mrs. Claus had warned, “Don’t over do it with the tincture, my love, you need to make it last.” But, the pain was too great, the stops more laborious, with Santa finding he needed more than usual.

Santa let the last drops of golden oil drip onto his tongue from the bottle, then tossed it into the trash bag hanging from the dash of the sled. 

“On Dancer, on Prancer, on Donner, on Blixen, Santa has a stop to make,” he hollered over the ocean waves crashing on the coastline. “Taking out a handful of cannabis fan leaves from a bin under the sled seat, Santa gave a bunch to Rudolph, then offered a handful to each reindeer.”

Ever since the elves began farming cannabis indoors at the North Pole the reindeers had benefited from the superfood as a supplement - preventing infections, strengthening their immune systems, soothing aching muscles, and increasing their stamina two-fold for this long night.”

Off they went across the sea into the night sky, to the State of Eire and a little shop on Lavitt’s Quay called, The Funky Skunk. 

“The Funky Skunk,” Santa chuckled thinking of the name. ”As long as the oil is strong and the plant is dank as skunk to begin with, that’s all that matters to me.”

Santa made his way above the winding waterways, across Lough Mahon, and into the town of Centre in the County of Cork.

He and the reindeers touched down lightly on the roof of The Funky Skunk, tucked into a line of row houses along the River Lee.

Its proprietor, Helen Stone, had just shut The Funky Skunk and was refilling a CBD cartridge display on the counter, when she noted a new brand.

“Need to test this one, she said, putting a cartridge onto a slender vaporizer pen, then taking a puff. The vaporized concentrate was sweet and flavorful, with a full profile of beneficial compounds. It immediately gave her a sense of well-being and calmness after her long and hectic work day.

She was just tidying up the counter when she heard and felt the sound of something large landing on the roof with a frightening thud.

Stone ran out to the street and couldn’t believe her eyes. Shaking her head, she said to no one in particular, “How much trace THC was in that cartridge?!”

Just then, Santa peered out over the rooftop, and with a hand on either hip, smiled down at Stone, laughing as he greeted her, “Ho, ho, ho! Merry Christmas!”

Not wanting to be rude, Stone rallied and replied, “Dia dhuit, Merry Christmas, Santa!” not believing her eyes.

“I’m wondering if you can help me out,” the jolly man shouted down to the street, after lowering his facemask. “Looking for a bit of relief for nagging lower back pain.”

Stone lowered her own facemask and told him how to get down off the roof and into the shop.

“We only have CBD, '' she informed him. “Ireland isn’t yet legal for whole plant cannabis products, unfortunately. But, I can help you with tincture, salve, or flower to smoke.”

“Oh my, that is disappointing,” Santa said, rubbing his lower back with a white-gloved hand. “In countries where cannabis is not yet legal, I’ve been known to be illegally healed,” he said with a wink.”

“Santa, I would help you in a pinch, but sadly, I’ve been fined and jailed in the past for having THC and other hallucinogenic products on hand. Yes you are right, people of Ireland are being illegally healed every day, but not from my shop.”

“Well, let’s see what you have,” Santa said, sitting down at a table across from Stone. “Tincture would be nice, and if you don’t mind, I’d love a hit or two from the flower while we visit.”

“My honor, Santa,” Stone said, setting up a glass bong on the table with six feet between them, then grinding some flower. “This CBD flower is called Cheese. It’s got a wee percentage of THC at 0.15 percent.”

Stone handed Santa her iPad, where she had the cultivar details up on the screen.

“To relieve your aches and sharpen your mind,” Santa read, happily. “Well, this might just do the trick. Much obliged!” Santa settled in for a bit of good craic.

Santa picked up the glass bong and inhaled deeply, using a silicone hitter by Mooselabs for safety from the COVID. 

He could feel his body relaxing and his lower back settling down. The tincture made by Remedy Health was flavoured with blackcurrant, and would create an entourage effect together with smoking the flower, giving him complete relief in about 20 minutes time.

“So, when do you think Ireland will allow whole plant cannabis?” Santa inquired.

“Lord only knows,” Stone said, sadly. “A few years ago one mother, Yvonne Cahalane, was allowed to give her two-year old son, Tristen, Sativex from GW Pharmaceuticals in England for severe seizures, but she said it didn’t work as well as the whole plant. Evidently, they need some THC, but so many fear it. Anyway, she ended up moving temporarily to Colorado in the United States for help with better products.”

“I truly can’t imagine having to leave your home country to be helped by this simple plant,” Santa said in dismay. “It just doesn't’ seem right, when so many countries are on board to help their own now. What will it take to educate your legislators?”

“Your guess is as good as mine, Santa,” she said, solemnly. 

The two sat in silence, quietly passing the bong back and forth, each using a silicone hitter for safety in these trying times. 

Santa wondered why they always used the children as pawns, playing politics with the plant, when it helped so many with so many ailments. 

“What about the children?” he blurted out in anger. “Mrs. Claus keeps track of the kids, you know. Not just the naughty and nice ones, but the children suffering from sickness and cancers. In Ireland alone, one in four deaths are caused by cancer - adults included. One in 24 kids born in Ireland today are diagnosed with autism - and cannabis helps with both.”

“We need more education,” Stone said.

“We need more legislators and politicians to get educated,” he replied. “Help the people get what they need - especially when it isn’t coming from the medical community.”

“Santa, you are preaching to the choir,” Stone said, returning the bong to its place on a shelf behind them. “They can all feck off, if you ask me.”

“Miles to go before I sleep, thank you for your kindness, mam,” Santa said, making his way back up to the rooftop and to his motley crew.

“Sláinte, Santa,” until we meet again,” she said, watching his descent into the starry night sky.

Rudolph’s nose was lit, and Santa was happily feeling no pain.

Santa touches down on the Vegas Strip, Nevada

This story originally ran in both Vegas & Tahoe Cannabis Magazine(s)

Santa headed northeast from Los Angeles following Highway 15 across the vast California desert. As he approached Henderson he could see the glowing lights of the city in the distance. Las Vegas, land of lights, in the middle of nowhere, yet it was everything.

“High Rollers and heartbreak,” Santa said to no one in particular. “But, they do have the herb now and my back is acting up.”

Santa reached into the little pocket Mrs. Claus had sown to keep a small bottle of tincture she’d made. The bottle was nearly empty.

“Thank goodness for legalization!” Santa exclaimed, steering Rudolf and team right down Las Vegas Boulevard, the infamous Vegas Strip, and onto the rooftop of Essence, one of the premier dispensaries in the city.

“Whoa, Rudolph, Whoa Dancer and Prancer!” Santa shouted out to his team, as they veered toward Cincinatti Avenue, landing on the rooftop of Essence, overlooking the Strip.

Armen Yemenidjian was closing up shop with one of his bud tenders when they saw something high above them, then heard the thump on the roof at touch down.

“What the fuck!” Armen said in disbelief. 

But the budtender knew. Through the green railroad of information, news of Santa’s infamous Christmas Eve visits had traveled around the world. 

“He was at Teesdale last year,” the stunned budtender muttered.

“Teesdale?” Armen asked. 

“Teesdale Cannabis Club, outside of London,” he said, as the two made their way back inside, out the back, and up the stairs to the roof. “Evidently, Santa has a bad back.”

The two looked at each other, then Armen slowly opened the root top door. 

Santa had dismounted from the sled and was putting green leaves into feed bags for each reindeer. He turned and smiled widely at the two, 

“Ho, ho, ho!” Santa exclaimed, approaching the two, who were now staring with mouths and eyes wide open at this vision they’d only thought existed in cartoons and holiday marketing fodder.

Santa could see the disbelief, so to break the ice he explained, “Cannabis leaves. We have a little greenhouse up at the pole. They love them, gives them energy and keeps them feeling good.” 

Armen and the bud tender grabbed handfuls of leaves and helped stuff them into the feed bags. 

“Excellent idea, Santa,” he said, relaxing in the task.

The budtender looked out across the Vegas sky, then back to the sled and the seemingly normal activity of feeding animals.

“How you feeling, Santa?” he asked. 

“Well, since you mention it, the tincture Mrs. Claus provides me with for such a trip is a bit low, and my lower back is a bit stiff. You two wouldn’t have a little to share, would you?”

“Santa, I’d like nothing better than to share my personal stash with you,” Armen said, leading the way to the rooftop door.

Once in his office, Armen pulled a carved wooden box out of a cupboard and set it on a table. The three sat around in a circle, and Armen filled the bowl of a bong with ground flower and handed it to Santa.

“Nevada’s finest,” he said. “Grown and hand-trimmed right here in Vegas. Thought you might like some Headband about now – 707 Headband. It’s farmed by Remedy – the first brand here in Vegas.”

Santa took the bong and enjoyed a big hit, billowing smoke across the room, much to Armen and the bud tender’s delight. 

“Well played, Santa,” Armen said with respect, re-filling the bong once more.

“You know, my back gives me a little trouble,” Santa shared. “By the time I’m done with the West Coast, I need a refresh. The flower helps for a top-off, but you wouldn’t happen to have any medibles or a bottle of tincture would you?”

The bud tender handed Santa a box of Incredibles Peanut Butter Buddha Pretzels, a Cool Mint chocolate bar, and a bottle of CBD Focus Elixer by Canna Hemp; while Armen re-filled the bong and handed it back to Santa once again.

“These fine products should help you cover a few more states,” the Bud Tender said. “They are both 100 milligrams, so take one 10 milligram piece at a time.”

“Oh yes, I know the drill,” Santa said with a wink. “Start low, go slow. I hate to admit, but I learned the hard way making my way across the Pacific Northwest. Those little candies were just too good and I ate the entire box! Rudolph had to get us to Portland before I could get some CBD tincture to take the edge off. Not funny at the time.”

The three laughed, all sharing similar experiences, then the bud tender filled a bag of swag for the jolly visitor. 

“I can’t thank you enough,” Santa said with a laugh and a smile. “The lights of Vegas will have a different meaning to me now, and I’ll never think of high rollers in the same way again!”

Santa readied the sleigh once they were back up on the roof, and with one wave they lifted high above the city of Las Vegas, with Santa singing out, “Ho, ho, ho… Wellness to all, and to all a good night! Ho, ho, ho!”

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Santa hangs at the Teeside Cannabis Club, England

This story originally ran in Weed World Magazine, UK

Santa made his way across the North Sea heading to Scotland. From Aberdeen to Edinburgh, Glasgow, and on to England, where he had his sights set to Middlesbrough and Michael Fisher’s Teesside Cannabis Club – otherwise known as, Club Exhale.

The small bottle of cannabis tincture Mrs. Claus slipped into his jacket pocket was frightfully low, and the bumpy ride was causing his sciatica to flare. He knew he needed to smoke soon in order to top off what little remedy he had left.

“Rudolph, to the club!” he exclaimed. “Poppa’s back won’t hold up much longer – Santa is feeling a bit knackered tonight.”

As with most cannabis clubs and markets throughout the Western world, the club was located in an industrial area – with this one on Albert Road. Santa made note of the McDonald’s nearby – wishing Mrs. Claus wouldn’t have given him the warning – “No junk food on this trip, Nic, you are already at your weight limit for the sled – and Dancer and Prancer’s backsides aren’t what they used to be!”

“Hopefully, the club will have cookies and milk,” he said aloud to his antlered crew.

As they landed on the roof of the club, Santa gingerly stepped down from the sled and was surveying the entry situation. A small group had gathered below, wide eyed, disbelieving what they were seeing.

“Shouldn’t have taken that last hit of skunk, bloke,” one man said to another, with nary a smile.

But this was no illusion. Santa noted the shock in their eyes – he’d seen it before. With a wink and a nod he called out to the stunned crowd, “Merry Christmas, ho, ho, ho! Could I bother you for a little taste of relief? I’m in a bit of hard cheese here with my lower back. Can’t seem to make the rounds like I used to and my tincture bottle is a little low.”

As mouths dropped open like cod fish, one man came forward.

“Welcome, Santa – please forgive our surprise, of course we’d love to help you,” Michael Fisher said with sincerity. “There’s a stair well down – we’ll meet you in side.”

Santa tied up the sled and gave the reindeer a bit of oats.

Once inside he made himself comfortable on a black leather couch and put his feet up on the coffee table, eyeing a bag of McDonald’s chips on the table. A young man handed him a colorful homemade paper hat, while another gave him a cup of tea.

Members cautiously made his way around him, with one young woman filling up the bowl of a bong and handing it to Santa.

“I’ve only ever left milk and cookies for you when I was a girl,” she chuckled. “Tell me, Santa, how was it you came to know this illicit weed?” she teased.

The group chuckled at her question, but they all wanted to hear, and gathered around the old man as if he were Jesus himself.

“Do tell us, old chap,” another added.

Santa took one large hit, clearing the bowl, then sat back into the cushions with a happy and content look on his face and a twinkle in his eye. He felt the warmth rise up through his back, giving him immediate relief from the pain.

“It was Mrs. Claus, actually,” he said. “She’s an Apothecary, you know.”

“Apothecary!” the young woman exclaimed. “I’ve been to the museum in London!”

The young woman looked around the room for acknowledgement. One young man joined in her enthusiasm, “So have I,” he said. “The Stabler-Leadbeater Apothecary shop. It was actually an Apothecary shop, but was closed in 1933, with all its contents intact.”

“Ho, ho, ho!” Santa laughed a heartily. “Right you are; Apothecary was how people healed, before the pharmaceutical company started making synthetic medicine – in the late 1930 in America, to be precise.”

“Right,” another joined in. “And skunk was on the menu!”

“Yes, cannabis was,” the woman said, knowingly, correcting the man’s use of slang for the beneficial herb.

There was a moment of silence in the room as the group pondered the reality of it all.

“Anyway,” Santa continued to his captivated audience. “Mrs. Claus has always made remedies from plants, but then we caught one of the Elves growing some weed in his back shed. Rather than chastise him, Mrs. Claus asked if she could make me a little tincture – much to everyone’s surprise!”

The group laughed as they continued to pass the bong around the room, while another rolled a few joints for Santa to take on his journey around the globe.

“Well, the proof is in the pudding, as they say,” Santa continued, after taking another hit off the bong. “Nothing else had come close to quelling my back pain. Not a thing. We nearly called off Christmas!

The group gasped at this realization.

Then, she began giving it to the reindeer and the Elves as each one presented with different ailments – Rudolph can pass some nasty gas on this yearly trip – and the remedy works wonders!”

Laughter ensued, as the smoking circle enjoyed Santa’s stories of healing, but they knew it had to end, as Santa rose up from the comfy couch and said his goodbyes.

“Can’t tell you how pleased I am that this club exists,” Santa said, picking up his hat and gloves. You know partaking of the herb is tribal – and you all are my tribe now.”

Everyone agreed how lucky they were, with Fisher beaming at his good fortune.

“We really must thank the local Police,” he quickly asserted. “We wouldn’t be here at all without their good graces.”

The group followed the old man up onto the roof and gathered round the sled as Santa climbed back in.

“On my way to deliver to the Palace soon,” he shared, with a wink.

“To the Queen?” someone asked, eyebrows raised, as the group gazed at Santa in anticipation.

“Of course – and the grandkids,” Santa offered. “The palace is a highlight of my stops in England – they have the finest cookies and milk in the land!”

“The Duchess of Sussex is pregnant, you know,” the young woman said. “I just read an article in Weed World about mom’s and pregnancy, and how it strengthens the immune system of both mother and child – while helping with morning sickness – she might need a bit of your tincture!”

The group chuckled at the thought, but Santa was cautious.

“We are ahead of our time, my dear friends,” he responded, with the utmost seriousness. “Believe me, if Mrs. Claus could give her a bottle of her tincture, she most certainly would, but I’m afraid it’s not in the cards tonight. Anyway, don’t you chaps have a product right here in the UK – Sativex, or some such silly name?”

“Yes,” the young women replied. “But I’m sure it’s not as effective as what your wife makes at home.”

“Right you are, nothing better than homemade,” Santa said, calling out to his crew, now lifting him up into the night sky. “To London!” he commanded.

“Merry Christmas, Santa!” the group cheered.

“Merry Christmas to all, and to all a healthful night!” Santa called out as he headed south. “Long live the plant and God bless the Teesside Cannabis Club!”

Santa’s Sativa Powered Sled

This story originally ran in Toke of the Town, Seattle, Washington

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.

After all, he was hated enough just being the vehicle of all things cannabis on a national platform. The more he knew, the more he sounded like a conspiracy theorist, and his yearly meeting with the fat man in the red suit was just a little over the top.

The two old friends smiled and waved as Santa landed the sled onto Steve’s roof. Years of riding continent to continent were taking a toll on the old man’s back, and the small vial of tincture Steve graciously provided helped him get through the rest of North America with relative ease.

“Merry Christmas, big guy! Welcome back to Washington State – a now legal state!” Steve greeted him with a warm hug, and both bantered back and forth about the legalities of being State legal and Federally insecure.

“Merry Christmas, Pork Daddy!” Santa said with a jolly laugh.

“How’s the back?” Steve asked, handing him a vial of tincture.

Santa took the small, glass container from Steve’s hand, rubbing the small of his back, “I can feel it now. It’s been a few hours since Denver. And I must say, though I’m thrilled both Colorado and Washington are legal, it’s a bitch seeing through the holiday smoke-outs!”

They both laughed, both holding their jolly bellies.

“If you had a full beard, I’d hand you the reins, Steve!” Santa said earnestly with a twinkle in his eye.

“This one is high in CBDs – let me know how it works for you,” Steve said as Santa took a dropper full of the tincture and squeezed it out into his mouth.

“Heading south to Seattle and eventually to Humboldt, maybe someone will have some edibles left out,” Santa laughed loud once more, with Steve joining in.

“Stay off the edibles, Santa – and all those cookies too!” Steve laughed tipping his hat as the sleigh rose up above Puget Sound, disappearing into the sky. “What a trip,” he said with a chuckle, knowing full well no one would ever believe Santa was a stoner.

The redwood curtain was real. For miles all Santa could see was a blanket of tree tops, with the ocean to keep him heading south west to Humboldt.

The County seat of Eureka stood out in the darkness, as he made his way to H Street. Santa loved the grand Victorians of Humboldt. “Whoa, Dasher, Dancer, Prancer and Vixen,” he said, pulling the reins hard, feeling pain shoot up from his lower back. “Easy does it, Comet, Cupid, Donner and Blitzen.”

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

“Nice one, Rudy,” Santa said, easing himself from the seat, noting he needed one dropper full every two hours or so, and gingerly lifting one of the red velvet bags from the back of the sled.

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

“There I am! Ho, ho, ho!” he whispered to the family dog, now cocking its head with curiosity at 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.

The tray held a bong, a small grinder, an ash tray, and a small mason jar, with what Santa assumed was some of Humboldt’s finest bud.

“Ho, ho, ho!” he said, winking at the pooch.

Santa looked around making sure no little ones were hiding in waiting, picked up the grinder and put a small amount of the bud inside. Once ground, he leaned in and inhaled the fragrant aroma. “Nice,” he smiled, packing the bong with a good-sized hit.

After several bowls full, Santa felt pleased and relaxed. His lower back ache dissolved away with another dose of tincture. He decided to let the reindeer outside rest a bit more and sank back into the chair.

“Damn!” Santa said, sitting upright, but it was too late. A man appeared at the top of the stairs. The patriarch of the family, and assumed 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 in an unsure and questioning tone.

“Well, ‘ho, ho, ho’ to you,” the man said, making his way down the stairs. “Looks like you are making yourself at home.” The man glanced at the tree, “Thanks for the swag, Santa. I suppose some 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 this fine magic?”

“It’s called ‘Redwood Kush,’ Santa, and quite good, if I do say so myself.”

“What strain? Is this indoor?” Santa inquired, knowingly.

“Heavy on Sativa — outdoor organic, actually,” he said, surprised and impressed at Santa’s level of knowledge.

“Well, I should have a Sativa right about now, and I do appreciate the outdoor organic,” Santa informed. “Last year Rudolf’s nose took me to a house up the road, and I swear there was mold in it — made me feel just awful until I could get over to Kevin at the Humboldt Patient Resource Center for some tummy tea, but, that’s another story.”

Santa could feel himself trailing in the conversation. He tended to get a bit chatty when medicated.

“How do you know this stuff, Santa?” the man asked.

“Well, I read… hmm.” Santa cleared his throat, lifted the stem out from the bong, and blew the stale smoke out, as the man raised his eyebrows.

“Actually, Mrs. Claus discovered the stuff for her arthritis… and then there was that elf with epilepsy, and Rudolph’s chronic headaches…” Santa stopped himself.

“My wife has breast cancer,” the man replied.

The two men sat in silence, passing the bong back and forth in a quiet
meditation.

“God is with us,” Santa said, to the man’s grateful thanks. “Have you been able to get her that strong concentrate, what’s it called?”

“What concentrate?” the man asked.

“It was created by a man by the name of Rick Simpson,” Santa informed. “He cured his own cancer and now many are using it with good results.”

“I’ll look into it; thanks, Santa,” the main smiled, passing the bong back him.

The faint sound of restless reindeers caused Santa to sit up.

“I’m good, thank you,” he declined. “Well, this sure has been a pleasure,” Santa said getting up out of the chair with some effort. Mind if I take a little something for the road?”

“Not at all, Santa,” the man smiled, quickly rolling up a fatty. “Safe trip!” he called to him, watching out the window as the sled lifted up and off into the Humboldt sky.

Santa felt good. His back pain quelled, and he sang out, “Merry Christmas Humboldt, and to all a well night.”

Santa kicks it in Humboldt for some much needed relief

This story originally ran in The Emerald Magazine, Humboldt County, California

Santa sat upright and felt a pang in the small of his back. He tapped the GPS for a response. It never worked above this blanket of the redwood curtain. Hugging the coast, Santa used the ocean to keep him heading toward Humboldt and some much needed relief.

Humboldt County’s seat of Eureka stood out in the darkness, as he made his way around Humboldt Bay, momentarily hovering over the old Carson Mansion and the boats at Woodley Island.

Santa loved the grand Victorians of Humboldt and the mansion was the queen of them all. “Whoa, Dasher, Dancer, Prancer and Vixen,” he said, pulling the reins hard, turning onto H Street where some of the finest Victorians still stood.

Sharp pain shot up from his lower back, and Santa commanded, “Easy does it, Comet, Cupid, Donner and Blitzen; old Nick is feeling his age tonight.”

Santa took a small bottle of cannabis tincture from an inside pocket of his coat Mrs. Clause had made especially for this purpose. “That’s your medicating pocket, pappa,” he remembered her saying with love. “One dropper full, every two to three hours,” his wife had prescribed.

The bottle was sorely low, “Not even a half a dropper full left,” he said to his antlered friends.

Rudolf used the power of his glowing red nose to sniff-out the best place for Santa to kick it, and motioned to a rather large painted lady with a wide, brick fireplace. The scent of weed filled the air above the dwelling.

“Nice one, Rudy,” Santa said, easing himself from the seat.

Santa lifted one of the red velvet bags from the back of the sled and made his way up and down into the chimney.

Once inside Santa scoped out the large living room and emptied the contents of the bag under a grand Christmas tree, then glanced at the proverbial plate of fresh baked cookies and tall glass of milk sitting on the hearth. He sat down on an over-stuffed chair by the fireplace, and waited for the last drops of tincture to kick in.

A brightly colored tray on the coffee table decorated with his image caught his eye.

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

The tray held a bong, a small grinder, an ash tray, and a small jar with what Santa assumed was some of Humboldt’s finest, labeled “True Humboldt.”

“Ho, ho, ho!” he said, winking at the pooch. “Well, I truly need this!” he laughed.

Santa looked around making sure there were no signs of little ones in the house. He picked up the grinder and put a small amount of the bud inside. Once ground, he leaned in and inhaled the fragrant aroma. “Nice,” he smiled, packing the bong with a good sized hit.

After two bowls full, Santa felt pleased and relaxed. His lower back ache dissolved away as the smoked flower allowed the tincture to kick in, and he connected with his muse. He decided to let the reindeer outside rest a bit more and sank back into the chair.

“Damn!” Santa said, sitting upright, but it was too late. A man appeared at the top of the stairs.

The patriarch of the family, and assumed 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 in an unsure and questioning tone.

“Well, ‘ho, ho, ho’ to you,” the man said, making his way down the stairs. “Looks like you are making yourself at home.” The man glanced at the tree, “Thanks for the swag, Santa. I suppose some 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 the maker of this fine magic?”

“It’s a hybrid,’ Santa, and quite good, if I do say so myself."

 “What’s the strain? Santa inquired, knowingly. “Slightly dank, I might add,” he chuckled. “Is this indoor or out?”

“Outdoor organic, actually – grown in the sun right here in Humboldt County,” the man said, proudly. “It’s a hybrid, heavy on Sativa.  A combination of Gorilla Glue and Girl Scout Cookies,” he informed, impressed at Santa’s level of knowledge.

“Well, I should say, some of the best Christmas Eve cookies I’ve ever had,” Santa chuckled at his own wit.

“Yes, I imagine it is,” the man laughed with this jolly seeming aberration in the night.

“And I do appreciate it came from the sun, nestled in the soil of this sacred region,” Santa said with added respect. He knew the hardships the area had faced the past few decades – and the challenges to come since California’s recent nod to legalization.

Coming out of the closet on good medicine wasn’t easy. Mrs. Claus could make herbal tinctures all day long, but add the illicit plant of cannabis, and the conversation quickly changed to darker dealings in a covert world.

Changing the subject, Santa “Last year Rudolf’s nose took me to a house up the road, and I swear there was mold in it - made me feel just awful until I could get over to the Humboldt Patient Resource Center in Arcata for some tummy tea.”

Santa could feel himself trailing in the conversation. He tended to get a bit chatty when medicated.

“How do you know this stuff, Santa?” the man asked.

“Well, I read… hmm.” Santa cleared his throat, lifted the stem out from the bong, and blew the stale smoke out, as the man raised his eyebrows

“Actually, Mrs. Claus discovered the stuff for her arthritis… and then there was that elf with seizures – terribe sight, cleared it up fast… and Rudolph’s chronic headaches...” Santa stopped himself.

"My wife has breast cancer," the man replied. “She smokes for relief.”

The two men sat in silence, passing the bong back and forth in a quiet meditation.

"God is with us," Santa said, to the man's grateful thanks. “Have you been able to get her that strong concentrate, what’s it called?”

“What concentrate?” the man asked.

“It was created by a man by the name of Rick Simpson,” Santa informed. “Up in Canada. He cured his own cancer and now many are using it with good results. Nice man, simple engineer, actually. Changed everything.”

“I’ll look into it, thanks, Santa,” the main smiled, passing the bong back him.

“Well, you certainly are in the right place,” Santa acknowledged. The Emerald Triangle, which encompassed Humboldt, Trinity, and Mendocino – with Lake County down the road – was historic for the hybridizing up of the psychoactive THC heavy strains we have today. It’s also very same place that hybridized the plant back down to what’s called, the God plant – custom made for healing.

“Would you like another rip, Santa?” The man couldn’t quite believe he was hanging with Santa Claus, let alone passing a bong with the kindly man.

The faint sound of restless reindeers caused Santa to sit up.

“I’m good, thank you,” he declined. “Well, this sure has been a pleasure,” Santa said getting up out of the chair with some effort. Mind if I take a little something for the ride?”

“Not at all, Santa,” the man smiled, handing him a pre-roll for the road.  “Safe trip!” he called to him, watching out the window as the sled lifted up and off into the Humboldt sky, heading further north across the never ending sea of redwoods.

Santa felt good, his back pain quelled, and he sang out, “Merry Christmas Humboldt, and to all a well night.”