Page 4 of Massive Size Lumberjack

I nod slowly, studying the design.

“Okay, but wood shake roofs generally aren’t fire-proof on their own. You have a shake roof, not a shingle one, Grace. Shingles are typically machine-sawn, with cuts varying from being along the grain and against the grain. Meanwhile, shakes are hand-split, ensuring that one of its sides is always along the grain. Shakes are generally more wind and water resistant, but when it comes to fire, the shakes need to be treated with retardant just like any wood-based roof covering. Are the new ones treated? How about the old ones?”

Grace looks confused but then pushes out her bottom lip.

“I’m sure all the shakes are treated,” she says quickly. “My brother and dad know what they’re doing. They’re pros at this.”

I nod, still surveying the roof which shows obvious patches of new work. Still, I shake my head.

“Yeah, but to be Class A, shakes generally need to be installed with special sheathing to increase their fire resistance in addition to being fire-treated. That shit is done by specialists, and not home handymen. Did your family hire professionals to take care of this?”

Grace’s bottom lip juts out even more.

“No, because my brother and dad are plenty handy themselves. They’ve always taken care of all our home repairs, and they’re good with cars too. My dad has always changed his own oil, and my brother practically built his hot rod from scraps from the junk yard! I’m sure it’s fine.”

I nod again, but inside I’m disgusted because what man would let his daughter live in such a shit place that’s obviously not fireproof? Besides, I don’t care how good these dudes are with their hands. Fire-readiness is a big deal in our part of the world, and it’s best done by professionals. Pros have the tools, knowledge, and experience to make sure people stay safe. This is obviously a shoddy install, given the misaligned shingles and patchy exterior.

I survey the windows then. They look like eyes in a haunted house, with their metal lined frames and thick, dual panes.

“Okay, so the windows are new.”

Grace nods happily, her ponytail bouncing again.

“Yeah, my dad took out the old ones and put in double-paned ones that are resistant to fire. Of course, windows can’t stop a fire altogether because glass doesn’t do that, but the double panes provide protection against wind-blown embers, and help with energy conversation and insulation too. It’s toasty in mycabin during winter,” she brags. “So hot that sometimes I walk around naked!”

I have a brief vision of the young woman prancing around nude in her small house, her big breasts bouncing and a sweet smile on her face. Her bottom is round and full, and fuck, but she’d look amazing on all fours, waiving that sweet puss at me.

But I have to stop because Grace obviously isn’t a temptress trying to lure an unsuspecting man into her home. Instead, she’s living like a church mouse, with probably only the most basic of amenities at her disposal. My guess is that she’s got one tiny bathroom inside, connected to a sump pump to handle sewage. Her water probably comes out of the faucet in a dribble, and I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s heating water over a stove for her baths.

Fuck. Who lives like this? Who treats their daughter like an impoverished Cinderella, letting her reside halfway up a remote mountain by herself? This shanty fucking sucks, and there’s no way I’d letmydaughter spend one night in these shitty digs.

Plus, the curvy girl looks poor. Don’t get me wrong because she’s a vision of good health with shiny, bouncy blonde hair, clear skin, and a plush pink pout. But the woman is dressed in what most people would consider rags. Her sweater’s patched at the elbows, and I see how her jeans are frayed at the hem. Her hair smells good, but it’s that homemade shit that women make with their own hands when they don’t have access to fancy salon treatments. Plus, her shoes are scruffy, beat-down sneakers with a hole in the toe. Is this for real? Do I have a young woman stricken by poverty living next door to my multi-million dollar lodge?

Fortunately, the lodge isn’t that close geographically, and it’s nowhere near completion either. Hell, Grace might not even be aware of it, and in that moment, I make a choice to keep mum. I don’t want her to know that there’s a billionaire next door with every resource at my disposal. I don’t want her to suspect that while she might be doing her dishes by hand in cold water, I plan on hiring a full staff to oversee my home. I don’t want her to know that I have no need to grow my own vegetables to eat, and that I haven’t tinkered with the engine of a car in twenty years. There are mechanics to take care of that shit, and my house manager makes sure it gets done.

Instead, I take a deep breath and put a smile on my face.

“Cool, cool. So the greenhouse is where you grow the weed right? Is that the extent of your operations? It looks pretty small scale.”

Grace appears conflicted for a moment, and I wonder if she’s going to lie because there’s no way she could grow more than twenty or thirty plants in the small space. That’s certainly not enough for any kind of retail operation, but then, she shakes her head and leads me to walk about a hundred feet to the right. The cabin and greenhouse overlook a small clearing which slopes slightly downwards, and that’s when I see it. There are what appear to be a couple acres of plant growth, shaggy and green beneath the afternoon sunlight.

“We do grow some cannabis in the greenhouse, but we also grow outdoors,” Grace explains, gesturing with one arm. “Most folks in this area do. We have access to free sunshine and temperate weather, so why not? Northern California is known for conditions hospitable to cultivating cannabis.”

That’s true because Northern California, especially Humboldt County, is famed for its mild climate and rich, loamy soil.

“And how many cultivars do you produce?” I ask thoughtfully, rubbing my square jaw. Honestly, this is still a tiny operation, and I wouldn’t be surprised if she said only one or two.

But Grace brightens.

“We’re working with five or six. Okay, maybe only three or four, but I like to play around with my plants and experiment. You know how the industry is these days. Most pot is purchased by regular users, and the thing with MJ is that people build up tolerance. So they want stuff that’s super-potent, and I’m working on developing a strain that’s especially strong just to satisfy market demands.”

“I see,” I comment in a low voice. “None of that low potency shit.”

“No, I’m afraid not,” Grace says with a shrug. “It just doesn’t sell as well. In fact, I know some folks have started growing their own plants in small apartments with grow lights because they can’t actually buy low potency stuff. But yeah, most customers are daily users, so our stuff is pretty strong.”

“And growing outdoors must help build potency too,” I muse.

“It does,” Grace agrees. “Natural sunlight helps cannabis plants produce more terpenes, which are the aromatic compounds that give weed its unique scent and flavor. Outdoor cannabis plants typically have a richer and more complex terpene profile than their indoor counterparts, although I have to say the plants from my greenhouse are incredibly aromatic and flavorful nonetheless. But terpenes don’t just make for a richer aroma. They also make the weed more potent by enhancing its psychoactive effects.”

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