We'll always make room for a little more (especially a little more coffee).

In the last few weeks our Toolshed has served as home-office workspace, print shop, coffee packaging/ shipping warehouse (the actual roasting happens outside), as well as hosting all our normal daily functions.  You know: sleeping, eating, housing two cats and the dog, making applesauce, drying plums, etc..  Just the basics.  I’ll be honest, there are times when it feels a bit cramped.  While shuffling boxes to extract the one large pot to heat shower water (too much smoke to heat the solar shower lately), or putting all other operations on hold till the photo prints spread over all surfaces are dry, it can feel like there is not room for one more thing or operation in this space.  By all logic, there probably is not.  So why not order over 800 pounds of coffee to be delivered to our door?

When we first started roasting, one of these bags seemed large.

Back in the Grove, we used to just pick up our Papua New Guinea coffee ourselves from the small warehouse that Larry and Aarlie import through near Seattle.  Driving on veggie oil, we’ve gotten up to three bags crammed into the backseat.  We usually managed to combine those coffee trips with some other meetings and errands in or near Seattle, so it worked out pretty efficiently, getting a few bags at a time.  We are by far the smallest customer at the warehouse, so it was always fun to see our one or two bags brought out to the loading dock.  But now that we’re hundreds of miles farther away, the direct veggie-oil fueled pickup isn’t so feasible.  Added to that is the fact that this year’s crop is looking to be pretty low at the Madan farm, so we’ve had a bit of worry about having a good supply over the next year.  So, just to be secure, we decided to take the new action of having some coffee shipped to us.  And if a truck is going to come to our house, even though the freight is shared with many other things coming to Missoula from that region, we want to maximize the efficiency of fuel.  So, of course, with nowhere really to put it, we ordered 8 bags of coffee. 

 

It arrived yesterday, while I was working at home (fortunately) and Noah was at the office.  The freighter truck couldn’t get up the driveway, but one of the builders working on Anita’s house was happy to drive his pickup truck out to the street to pick up the pallet of coffee for us.  A pallet of coffee.  Eight bags, piled up, strapped down, and marked with “Forest Voices” on a wire-and-paper tag.  A whole pallet of coffee is a bit exciting, and a whole new scale for our operations.  

I was tempted to start wrestling bags off the truck and into our living space right away, but since I’m still supposed to be on lockdown for any strenuous ankle activity (something I need to get better at obeying), I called Noah home from the office, and we tackled it together with the wheeled dolly that has proven to be one of our most valuable pieces of equipment.  I thought for a while we might have to pile these in one corner of our living space, reducing the access pathway to our bed to a small corridor, but with enough shuffling, we managed to squeeze them into a garage storage space between Anita’s furniture and boxes.  We are still proceeding with pretty much all activities even in this toolshed homestead, but I’m looking forward to the day when there are more distinct zones for all these different business and activities.  Till then, we’ll just continue this shuffle, doing our best to make that Toolshed Shuffle into some sort of dance. 

 

  

The handcart purchased for the multiple moves proves invaluable for wheeling the coffee from the truck through the kitchen and toolshed for storage in the garage. (note that Noah is similarly versatile, transitioning easily from being a sustainable agriculture consultant on skype video calls, to coffee freight transfer without so much as changing clothes.  We're bit on versatility here.

and what do you do?

A set of standard questions is emerging in my conversations with people in Missoula lately as we re-establish in this community.  From the people I knew before, they run along the lines of "So, you're back...for how long?"  "Did you find a job here?"  or "Are you teaching at the University here?"  Behind the questions I can often sense the curiosity about my return, my two year adjunct teaching stint in Oregon, my future goals.  From people I'm meeting more newly, it's usually some variation of "What do you do?"  Meaning, really "what work do you get paid for?" 

It's funny, it's such a normal question in most circles, and the answer to that question tends to define us, the basic job-title-as-role definition of who a person is.  I had an interesting exchange recently with a friend from grad school about whether or not she was still a biologist.  Meredith spends most of her hours these days wrangling two small children, but is also branching into some science writing.  She has a PhD in biology, is one of the best bird-nerds I know (she named her black shepherd dog Corvus, part of the Latin name for crow), and is married to a wildlife biologist.  Their recreational family outings more often than not involve binoculars, birding, and species identification.  She wrote a lively and informative article on the biology and natural history of dragonflies for a local publication in her small Colorado town, and described herself in the author blurb at the end as "a former biologist."  I took issue with the "former" but since she wasn't getting paid for biological research or working at an institution anymore, she didn't feel comfortable claiming the "biologist" title at the moment. 

I can relate, to an extent.  After all, I carried a university ID card marked "faculty," had a nameplate with "Mary Bricker, PhD" outside my office door (an office of my own, with a door! not a grad student cubicle!) for at least one whole semester, maybe a whole year, before the answer "I'm a biology professor" started to come naturally. I often dodged a bit, saying "I teach biology at a small college," taking the activity descriptor, rather than title-claiming route.  Eventually I got used to it, embraced it, even if it still sometimes (often) felt like I was figuring it out and barely functioning as Professor Bricker.  But, on the other hand, those two years of teaching were probably the simplest, easiest to explain job I've had.  People understand, or at least think they understand, what it means to be a professor. That simplicity was s relief after six years of grad school and a year of working for an educational software company, both situations complicated and nebulous enough that even my own family had a hard time telling people what I did.

And now, once again, the answer to the question of what I do is a bit tricky.  You might be wondering, too.  And one complication is that right now, it's work that I think I will eventually be paid for, somehow.  But it's not so secure or clear as hourly wages or a year's teaching contract.  One way I answer "did you find a job here?" is "Well, I'm making myself one."  That's partly because I'm not quite read to answer with "I run a not for profit organization," even though that is the thing I spend most of my time doing right now (not alone, of course, it's with Noah,and we're continually adding affiliations and partnerships to ensure that it's not just our own crazy idea and plan, but something with support, focus, and longevity).  Some parts of it are running already, like the coffee roasting direct trade program--that's approaching a year now.  Some parts Noah has been running for years, documenting farm and forest people in words and images.  None of it has yet been done under an official 501(3)c status, but we're getting there.

I want to be clear: I didn't leave my job teaching at Pacific because I was unhappy there, because it was hard (though it was) or required ridiculously long hours, even on weekends (which it did) .  I left because, as much as I liked the role of Professor Bricker on a little campus of brick buildings and lawns shaded by Oregon White Oak, I believe that the ideas Noah and I have for our organization could bring about something even better.  It's still hard work, it's still requiring some long hours and some difficult, loosely structured tasks that seem never ending. I have to make phone calls to people I don't know way more often than I'd (it's not something I do well(.   But it's also exciting, and we've had some good successes recently.  I'd like to share some of those stories (including how we went straight from bucket showers and the toolshed homestead to a conference room in Manhattan to make a pitch to an organization there).  But before some of those stories, it might help to see some summaries of "what we do" these days. 

I've been working already on drafting descriptions of our organization and programs, for sharing with contacts and people to whom we'll make requests for help, meetings, etc..  So, though still in draft form, here's the basics of what we at Forest Voices do.  And maybe before too long I'll find a smooth way to answer the question of "what do you do?" in conversation as well.  After all "I run a small non-profit organization with my partner" is a pretty normal answer to that question in Missoula!

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The official Forest Voices logo

Forest Voices is an establishing not-for-profit organization based in Missoula, Montana.  We have three programs that function independently but also complement and support each other.  All programs work towards our overall goal of supporting the people and communities who rely on forest ecosystems. 

Mission and Vision: 

Forest Voices uses student courses, direct trade, and storytelling programs to foster meaningful connections between people across vast geographic and lifestyle distances.   We help consumers of globally traded products such as coffee, tea, and cocoa understand and directly experience how good practices of trade and agroforestry can impact the lives of the farmers producing these crops.  We believe that understanding the full process and story behind the foods and products we consume can encourage people to think and act with greater care, to enhance the quality of life and sustainability of the communities of the farmers and the consumers alike. 

Our programs:

Storytelling:  We listen for and document local stories, particularly in communities living in forests and at forest edges.  We use participatory methods, in which we empower people to record, document, and share their ecological knowledge, traditional and innovative farm and forestry practices, and cultural heritage.  These stories and knowledge, recorded in writing, audio, video, images, and maps, remain in the community as a resource for community members, and for exchange with other communities. 

We also gather and share some of these stories with the end consumers of high-value, globally traded agro-forestry crops such as coffee, cocoa, and vanilla.  In this case, the stories of farmers, the forests they rely on, and their farming practices, are meant to educate and inspire consumers.  A compelling story can lead people to make choices and take actions that directly enable the forest communities producing such commodities to obtain a fair price, earn a reliable living, and continue farm practices that enhance and preserve forest ecosystems. 

Student courses: On two to three week travel courses, students explore the complex ecology of agro-forestry crops such as coffee by living and working with families in communities growing these crops.  Through direct experience and service learning, students gain understanding of both the culture of the host community and the natural history, ecology, and conservation challenges relevant to that area.  In addition, we work intensively with students on these courses to develop and refine their ability to effectively communicate what they learn.  Specifically, students learn to identify, and craft stories in order to present information in a way that is compelling, and inspires thought and action in an audience.  Through this emphasis on storytelling, students are able to return to their home communities equipped to bridge their course experience with their home life, and share the stories with that home community.      

Direct trade:  We buy directly from farmers with whom we have established relations and whose farming practices make a positive impact on their surroundings. We process these products (coffee and cocoa) at small scale in our home facilities and sell to local consumers.  These products also serve as vehicles of farmer stories, to educate consumers and facilitate building of community in the US.

Currently

Fall started just a few days ago.  We celebrated mostly with farm projects, failing to mark the transition of season with any particular equinox ceremony.  The whole suite of work to prepare for future seasons is inherently a celebration of turning into fall, though, so I'll consider shoveling manure, building more compost bins, walking every morning through the pasture, wondering about cover crops, planting times, how best to dig more beds...all of it a bit of celebration of fall. 

Through all of that, we notice: 

water: cold. a jump into the Bitterroot River after hot and sweaty errands proved the local water currents these days are absorbing our cold nights; that might have been the last river-dip of the year.

air: thick.  morning cold, afternoon hot, all the time filled with smoke.  today is the worst yet, burning in chests and eyes, giving a slight twilight look to the light the entire day. 

creatures: moving.  five red-tailed hawks circling an updraft over the pasture yesterday, four deer passing through and riling up the horses next door to a miniature stampede.  osprey talking from the treetops.  blue woolly aphids emerging all at once on Saturday, and explosion of micro-fluff and blue flashes. 

And the colors continue to shift.  A few yellowing leaves drift down, apples redden, the pasture grasses hold on to golden brown; Malaya blends right into them, and the feather found on our morning walk matches the dog, the pasture, and the season.  Welcome to fall. 

Frosty on the outside, steaming on the inside.

A compost pile can be kind of the reverse of a baked Alaska:  a cool outer layer contains a surprisingly hot interior.  The other morning there was frost on the ground all around our new compost bin (made of 4 wood pallets tied together with the ever-present baling twine).  Inside, though, things were cooking:  the 20-inch thermometer read 145 degrees F, well into the "hot" zone on the color-coded thermometer, which always brings a sense of pride.

I'll admit, it's a bit ridiculous to own a special tool for measuring the temperature of the compost (especially since we also have one thermometer dedicated to cheese making, and another for candy/ chocolate making/ oven temps, plus a laser thermometer for the coffee roasting).  But on the plus side, it keeps me from plunging my bare hand into the center of a giant pile of hot damp rotting food scraps, weeds, and horse manure on a daily basis.  I think we can all agree that's worth something right there, especially when cleanup facilities currently include no running water, just the blue collapsible jugs on the table.

I've always gotten a certain satisfaction out of having compost that is too hot to handle.  Even though I don't stick my hand down into the pile so often now (which has saved me a lot of splinters, thistle-pricks, and encounters with unidentifiable slime), I often still have to pull out the metal thermometer, feel the end uncomfortable to the touch, and smile.  If it's too hot for me, I know those thistles aren't going to be happy about it either.  After a few hot days this pile will gradually cool down, age nicely, and be excellent for spreading in the spring on those very beds I pulled the thistles out of. 

When we left Oregon we left behind some heart-breakingly beautiful compost:  one bin richly finished and being worked over by worms, another cooking away and on track to be beautiful for spreading in the fall to put the gardens to bed.  It was sad to lose those, though it looks like the landlord from that place will use them and they won't go to waste.  So it's great to get some good lively compost going here; it's a good step towards making a place "home."  


Note of fair warning:  this will not be the last time I brag about the heat of my compost, or share my excitement about decomposing organic matter.  You might as well forgive me now, several times, and get it out of the way. 

Introducing the farm (or farm-to-be)

The autumnal equinox is next weekend, but yesterday a smattering of yellow leaves drifted off the birch tree and into my kitchen in an unmistakable sign of fall.  I brushed leaves off the table and went on with my attempts to make a non-baked cheesecake as a birthday surprise for Noah (a whole other story, awaiting the verdict of taste-testing later today).  Before you speculate with envy on what large and airy windows I must have to get a drift of leaves into my kitchen, it’s time to admit our current living situation:  the kitchen is outdoors, a long folding table outfitted with propane camp stove, dishrack, three plastic tubs for washing, and a set of collapsible 5-gallon water jugs.  It sits just outside the door to our living space, the finished room off of a two car garage.  The neighbors whose mother used to own the property said, when we explained where we were sleeping, “Oh, the toolroom.”  And it is a toolroom, about 12 by 30 feet in size, insulated, painted, with framed windows and electricity….and yet, in our vocabulary, we have slipped into consistently referring to it as the toolshed.  We are living in a toolshed, relying on our outdoor kitchen, a dorm fridge, a construction-zone porta potty, and a 2.5 gallon solar shower designed for camping.  I think it’s time to introduce the place.

The Toolshed Kitchen.

We left Oregon for Missoula with the plan of buying some land on which to build (a small house, and base for our not-for-profit organization) and grow (food, animals, community).  We hope a you-pick berry operation will eventually be one of our several income streams, and are intent on growing a large portion of our own food. We knew it would take some creativity in addition to the savings we had.  We researched yurts, anticipating at least a year of potentially off-grid living on whatever property we might be able to find, knowing it would take a while to build house and home.  But even going through various different channels all at once, we weren’t having much luck as we searched over the spring and summer.  We knew it could take a while, and were debating the interim strategy…a yurt on friend’s land, a standard rental house, even (in a low moment) RVs for sale on Craigslist.   In the meantime, though, another option appeared.  Nor for purchase, not to build on yet, not quite matching our initial plan, but with interesting potential. 

Adjacent to a house outside of town where I lived for a year with roommates and good friends, a 5-acre parcel had recently been purchased by someone we were indirectly connected to through old Missoula social circles. It's the sort of place you can fall in love with all too quickly:  a tall old barn with hayloft, small orchard, and irrigation canal bubbling along the edges. We met Anita, the new owner, casually, not directly through our land search.  As we each started describing what we were hoping to do, we all realized that there were some parallel goals in how she envisioned her new land being used, and what we hoped to do with the land we were searching for.  After many meals and conversations, we have landed here, on Sundown Road, a few stone’s throws from the Bitterroot River, just as the days are starting to shorten and the thistle blows its seed.  Our current agreement is a year of seeing how we all work together, and seeing what we can do with the land.  We will make some substantial investments in the place in lieu of paying normal rent, and will work to turn this land back into a farm.

Formal Dining Room, with orchard view.

Currently, while juggling the remains of old jobs and work, launching new work through our own programs, and living with at least half our belongings still in storage, the whole prospect can be overwhelming.  There’s a lot of planning to be done, even before much of the enacting:  how to re-roof and finish off part of a long shed into a good chicken coop (and can there be room for goats, later, at the other end)?  What is the best moveable electric fence, and how much will a solar-powered charger cost?  How large of an area to we need to fence off from deer in order to have a garden that can feed three people and still host feasts for guests?  For concrete progress, every day or two I dig up a few more square feet of the old garden space, liberating it from the thistle patch is become over a few years of fallow time.  

We won’t be in the toolshed the whole year, though—this is just another temporary location.  Within the next month, construction will be done on the main house, Anita will move in there, and we will shuffle out of the toolshed (turning it into a home office and studio), and move our living quarters to the little efficient cottage where Anita is currently living.  But even before we are fully settled, we are beginning to get to know the place, the plants, the soils, the trees.  We may plant our garlic before we even have a real house to live in, but that’s ok.  It’s not a bad order of priorities, really, at all.  

The morning view from the toolshed window is the sun hitting the side of the  hayloft.  This barn surely held horses and other animals once.  Now you can see the pieces of more modern green transport:  Anita's Prius, and our barrels of waste oil waiting to be filtered to fuel the VW Jetta. Our bikes are stabled in the small stall on the left.