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.