InFARMation (and Beer!)

I left Oregon back in 1995, just around the same time Portland seems to have gotten snagged in some bizarre pocket of the space-time continuum. Similar to the way my dad's hometown of Greenville, South Carolina continues to exist in the alternate universe of the 1950's, (a Cleavers meets Stepford reality), Portland's grungy 90's eco vibe has bloomed into a thick quantum moss, covering the city's future, and trapping urban Portlanders deep inside the bowels of magical forest time where stationary bicycles power organic brew pubs and high heels don't exist.

This permaculture agri-fog has me continually baffled, taking pictures of smart cars with bike/ski racks and wondering aloud what happened to the warmer half of the color spectrum. I have become an accidental hoarder, putting used cups back into my purse rather than decipher the myriad of passively judgmental bins that collect in cafe corners like so many environmental lobbying committees. I long for ecologically simpler times, when the messages on my refuse receptacles were merely ones of bold gratitude. "Thank You" stated those big friendly cans of yore. "My pleasure," I used to think, imagining it was enough to treat people kindly, donate to a local charity, and keep the restaurant floors clean. No longer the case in "new" Portland, where even the trash cans are nerdy, and rather than determine whether my styro-corn cup is compostable or recyclable, I resign to make art out of it and join a co-op/glitter grunge band.

About a week into my visit, I check the web for entertainment and find a farming-related event that looks promising. Holocene, a hipster hangout where just last week I watched 1960's Czech art house cinema, scored and accompanied by floaty synthesized local bands, was promoting a monthly meet-and-greet called "InFARMation (and Beer!)" designed to bring urban consumers (read: foodie hipsters) together with rural producers (read: people I recognize as normal) to discuss "issues facing local organic farmers" (read: stuff that apparently increases the social value of foodie hipsters and that I should probably brush up on). I wonder if the same art house crowd will show up for this event,i.e. if farming can pull the loitering masses of bored 20-somethings in schlubby Mr. Roger's sweaters and faux furry-eared hat-scarves who sip raspberry gin balsamic cocktails and speak a secret band language that even urban dictionary can't track. I note the start time, and plug the date into my phone.

I mention the event later to a couple of my Portland friends, (their daughter makes fused glass art in pre-school), and one inquires about the speaker. I can't remember his name, but say he's "a seed guy" at which point my friend gets all googly eyed and exclaims "not Steve Solomon! He's amazing!" Fascinating. I figure this speaker must be some sort of seed rock star. Later on, I check the website and learn the speaker isn't rock star Steve Solomon but his seed bass player equivalent, Anthony Boutard. I'm initially disappointed until it hits me that here in Portland, there's enough interest to support B-list farming celebrities. I want to be one. The homesteader's answer to Kathy Griffin. The Kate Gosselin of sheep.

I arrive late to the event, and by the time I get there parking is scarce and the bike rack beside the door is full to overflowing. Over 200 people are collected inside the stylish industrial artspace, listening, rapt, to a balding, middle aged guy who looks a lot like my dad. I have a technology nostalgia moment when he tells his assistant to "go to the next slide," that is, until she thumbs across her iPad, and we all turn our attention to the brushed concrete wall to find an enormous projected image of Anthony's tomatoes.

The lecture goes something like this: Anthony Boutard, Seed Bass Player: "Here's my tomato/sweet potato/ear of corn. It grew, some stuff happened, then I kept the seeds." I actually find what he's saying rather interesting, noting the plants that perform easily in the region and blacklisting the ones he says he's had to struggle with. None of this, however, is nearly as fascinating as the fact that the rest of the still growing audience seems so patently engaged in his vegetable lecture. When the talk is over, the whole room bursts into applause and I think "man, Portland is weird." A bubbly facilitator introduces the question/answer portion of the evening, and rather than relay all the details, I've created a brief synopsis of the discussion here: Foodie hipsters: "Mr. Boutard, I know you do this big scale farming thing for a living and everything, but I grow this one awesomely obscure vegetable in my windowsill flowerbox and I was wondering if you've ever heard of it/want my advice/I don't actually care since I'm earning hipster foodie points (redeemable for non-gmo livestock in facebook farmland) just by asking you this question". Anthony Boutard: "practical farm fact".

When the entertainment is through I wander over to the "Friends of Family Farmers" diorama table to do some networking, and instantly get hipsterly profiled. Another gentleman who looks a lot like my dad (review right) is standing beside me, both of us reading the tri-fold posterboard display and fondling the free magnets. A young girl working the table sizes the two of us up,steps around me, and excitedly asks the man if he's an organic farmer. Turns out he's not, and while she goes down the list of alternatives, I note the pecking order. Organic Farmer #1, Non-Organic Farmer #2, Hobby Farmer #3, Future Hobby Farmer #4, Possible Future Hobby Farmer #5, Shops at Farmer's Markets #6, Shops at Target #682. Not on the list: Wal*mart shoppers and black people. Actually, that's not fair, black people may very well be on the list; I just haven't seen any since arriving in Oregon. PS, if you were offended by that statement and you're not black, congratulations, you've just earned bonus lesbian-feminist points, redeemable at any bookstore on Hawthorne for your choice of either a batik sarong or wiccan bumper sticker.

I leave the club that night with a fistful of networking brochures, a "Friends of Family Farmers" t-shirt, and a renewed sense of excitement about this whole crazy notion. I recall briefly, a moment earlier in the evening, when the sign-in clipboard was passed around and I checked the box marked "farmer" just to see how it felt. I'm still smiling when I cross the street.

Exit Stage Left: Trading My Name in Lights for 60 Tons of Chicken Sh*t

Me, Pre-Sheep.  (Photo by Benjamin Lambert)

At the time of this entry, I'm a gainfully employed teaching artist living in Anchorage, Alaska. I hold a full time faculty position in the dance department at the University of Alaska, and maintain several independent contracts with local studios, public schools, and community organizations. I've built a steady performance career with a wide variety of professional ensembles, from ballet companies to burlesque troops, belly dance groups to drag queen revues. I sit on boards, advise my state council, manage a company, and present my artistic work at both a national and international level. That said, as of this summer, I'm packing up, driving south, and digging in to our brand new family farm in Oregon to try my hand at good ol' fashioned American homesteading.

Banzai, my loudmouthed Siamese cat

It should be said that I have absolutely no farming experience. I have successfully raised, to date, one loudmouthed siamese cat, and, after a few initial unfortunate attempts, an incredibly hardy Wal*Mart beta. My house plants are all fake, I've never made peach cobbler, and I have a propensity for fainting. Given my incredible lack of expertise, I understand the possible concern that managing a 40 acre homestead with livestock may seem a ridiculous, misguided idea. To that I say, "no more ridiculous than moving to Prague and opening a cafe" which I did, with a respectable amount of success, (at least until the flood), a little over a decade ago. But that's a story for another time. This entry is dedicated to my facebook friends and dance students who have been wondering what in the H-E-double hockey sticks I'm planning, what with all this talk of sheep chairs, chicken tractors and attempts to make my own cheese.

Dad made this visor out of a tiny cereal box.

My dad, (the not-at-all-crazy-looking gentleman to your left), decided some years back, that if the world is indeed going to Hades in a hand basket, he should probably invest in an apocalyptic bunker and some arable land.

I learned of his plans one morning this summer, during a routine visit back home. While my mother and I caught up over breakfast, my father, who suffers from what he likes to call "selective hearing loss" cheerfully shouted into the telephone in the adjoining room. As I'm delivering my not-so-interesting-news from Anchorage monologue, my mother interrupted, waving her hands, "Shhh! I think your dad's buying you a farm." Translation: "I think your dad is closing the deal on a 40 acre investment property he plans to hand over to you and your younger sister, (a twenty-something corporate piranha and aspiring tennis prodigy in Manhattan), just as soon as we're dead and the government's through siezing their unfair share." I asked the next logical question, "Who told dad we wanted a farm?" but she just shushed me again, and we listened quietly to the conversation for another minute or two. I finally whispered, "so, where is this farm?" to which she replied "Lebanon,"and I immediately began wondering how I would ever afford a good nursing home on a measly dance teacher's salary. Luckily my father quickly joined us in the kitchen to share his good news. "Well, we finally bought the farm," he said, and I learned that Lebanon, in addition to being the home of Beirut, the "Paris of the Middle East," is also the name of a rural town in the lush Willamette Valley of Oregon, about an hour away from both eco-chic Portland and hipster haven Eugene.

Front porch

 Dad and I made plans to visit the new farm during my stay, and, long story short, as soon as I set eyes on the place, I fell in love with its vast acreage, the adorable house, and this whole crazy notion of getting back to the land and trading my current life of conceptual, ephemeral art-making for a gloriously steep learning curve and the promise of gaining practical, hands-on skills that would put dirt under my fingernails and food on the table.

View from the back patio

Since my first farm visit, I've done my best to make up for lost time, reading livestock manuals, (my current favorites are "Storey's Guide to Raising Sheep: The newly updated version of this best selling classic", and Joel Salatin's "Pastured Poultry Profits"), downloading organic farming and slow food podcasts, (my recent favorite is "Nature's Harmony Farmcast" detailing the ongoing saga of Tim and Liz, more former big city folk paving the way for novice homesteaders like my dad and I), scouring youtube and plumbing the blogosphere for both inspiration and support. 

Mr. Douglas buys a trailer

This week's highlight is a youtube video of a breech lamb delivery where a featured farmer makes good use of the strategies outlined in Paula Simmon's and Carol Ekarius's sheep raising manual, wherein the reader is instructed to "Grasp [the lamb] firmly by the hind legs and swing it aggressively in an arc several times [so that] centrifugal force will expel the mucus. Be sure that you have a good grip on the lamb to avoid throwing it out of the barn, and be sure that its head will clear the ground and all obstacles." The aforementioned video can be found at http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FYueDxZ8xwk but I highly recommend fast forwarding to 2:36 to avoid burning excessive nightmare-inducing images deep into the recesses of your brain, and not watching this video either in public or on a full stomach. 

Our new mascot

So that's my story so far. It is a distinct possibility that I've bitten off far more than I can chew in the name of grand adventure. The good news is, it wouldn't be the first time, and luckily for you, I've never had an issue talking with my mouth full. 

Keep up with our adventures here, at www.littlebopeepshow.blogspot.com, and/or "like" our page on facebook http://on.fb.me/littlebopeepshow for all of the latest updates on my formerly glamorous life.