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. 

Stubborn Rides in Tandem

It is entirely possible that two very stubborn people are not the best candidates for learning to ride a tandem bike together.  But for us, that very stubbornness may have been the only thing that made it possible.  We certainly didn’t have the experience, knowledge, or even gracefulness that might be recommended for new riders, when we wheeled the giant electric-blue steel Schwinn cruiser into the bike shop near our house and asked to have it fixed up well enough to ride around town. 

The bike was a treasure from Noah’s old Missoula storage unit, salvaged as a freebie years ago from someone not interested in fixing it up.  It seemed like a great idea, when we moved back to town, to get it road-worthy and take on the town together.  We didn’t want to drive everywhere, Noah didn’t have a bike yet, and surely, how hard could it be?  It looked like a fun adventure. 

When we went to pick it up from the bike doctor, we debated whether to bring the dog with us or not.  I had biked with Malaya enough to be wary—usually I used a special spring-loaded shock cord that attached to the bike seat post, since simply holding the leash and handlebar had led to a few disastrous spills.  Noah insisted that she come, certain we could pick up the bike, step aboard, and ride off home with dog trotting along beside, no problem. (I always thought I was pretty optimistic before I met Noah, whose faith in great possibilities tends to eclipse my own outlook).  He agreed to my compromise that we first take a little test ride without her, just us on the bike, before adding the husky into the mix.  We would see how it went. 

The place we got the bike fixed is a small bike shop that specializes in repairs and used bikes, rather than slick and shiny new retail gear. In fact, there’s not a whole lot of slick and shiny new in the shop, including the employees and patrons. The two repair stations are well-worn, a bit greasy, and visible from the front desk.  A jar half-full of change and dollar bills on the counter is labeled as a fund to get one of the owners to shave his grizzled beard.   Every Thursday is a happy hour where friends of the  shop come to drink beer and compare stories.  We picked up our bike on a happy-hour night, and the place felt more like a small-town Montana bar than a bike shop; we got the same friendly but skeptical eyeballing outsiders would get in any such establishment.  Malaya and I were the only females in the place.  When our friend and repairman Don rolled the tandem out it drew some interest from the peanut gallery.  Luckily the air conditioning inside and the heavy July heat outside kept them from coming out to observe our first attempts at riding it. 

For a few decades now I’ve taken for granted the ability to swing up onto a bike smoothly and be on my way. I love the easy roll and the feeling of freedom, and a well tuned and fitted bike rarely fails to bring a smile to my face.  I’ve never added another person into the mix on the same vehicle, however.  When Don handed the bike over to us outside, Noah and I each touched a set of handlebars, looked down at the bike, then up at each other and suddenly realized we didn’t really even know how to start this thing.  “So, um, any tips?”  he asked Don.   

Thankfully, Don did not laugh at us, but thought for a minute before offering: "Well, you just have to communicate.  The captain, that's the one up here in the front, has to say if he's going to turn or slow down.  You can't just stop pedaling suddenly.  That won’t go well. The stoker, back here, has to say when she's going to shift gears.  Don’t make any sudden movements.  Oh, and pick which side you want to start on--right pedal up or left." 

It seemed like reasonable advice, so we straddled our respective seats, put the right pedals up, counted "one, two, three..." and proceeded to lurch a few wobbly feet forward before tipping so far we had to stop.  It was nothing like biking alone.  It was like being a kid in those first shaky lessons on a two-wheeler.  We stared at each other in shock, wondering if we'd just wasted a bundle of repair money getting this thing fixed, and thinking maybe we shouldn't even have kept it in the first place.  Maybe this bicycle built for two idea was ridiculous.  Maybe we just weren’t the right people for it.  Certainly it was going to be a whole lot harder than we thought.  We tried a few more precarious attempts making it a few feet farther each time, and discovered that there were a few more things that needed adjusting.  The rear seat swiveled left and right, one wheel needed a quick re-align.  Don took it back in to fix, but those problems seemed minor compared to the general operator incompetence we felt. 

Inside, the local crew was at least two beers into their evening and getting chatty.  "You ever ride one of those before? How'd it go? " I admitted it was a bit harder than we'd expected.  "Well, the thing is, the faster you go, the easier it is," was the advice from one corner, punctuated by a long swig.  That bit of advice seemed useful, at least.  When I explained that we intended, eventually, to also have the husky running beside us on-leash, they smiled and shook their heads, informing me that that was a pretty advanced maneuver, not something to aspire to anytime soon.  When I admitted that Noah fully intended to have us riding with the dog by the time we got home that evening 10 blocks away, there was outright laughter. 

Since I had lobbied for leaving the dog at home and just picking up the bike, I shot Noah a very pointed glare to drive home the fact that perhaps we were setting our goals too high. These were not just average innocent bystanders, after all; every knee in that bike shop showed some scars or scabs.  These guys knew all the ways to crash a bike, and from the sound of the guffaws and the knowing glances at each other, they knew that adding a feisty two year old husky to the mix was one sure way to do it.  One character leaned in across the counter when Noah was distracted by something and offered "You know they also call those bikes 'divorce machines' right?"  I gritted my teeth and laughed, said we'd see how it went. 

After the second round of adjustments we tried again and managed a few shaky, swerving, but steadily improving loops around the block. Each one was punctuated with a steady commentary of “ready?  Up!  Ok, braking….ok, here we go…whoa!  Whoa!” and so on.  It was still tough; we were still throwing each other off, each trying to balance on our own, but we were moving forward, at least.   Relieved that perhaps the thing wouldn't turn out to be a complete waste, we paid our repair bill.  At my insistence we left on foot, walking both the bike and the dog.  Even though we had, technically, succeeded in riding it together, and were clearly getting the hang of it, we were a bit deflated.  Our plan of cruising through this town delivering coffee on the coolest bike around seemed pretty far derailed at this point.  We were not at all sure that we had done the right thing.   

As we walked home we rehashed some of the commentary from the bike shop. I told Noah about the "divorce machine" and the specific skepticism about our potential for riding home with husky.  He'd missed that the first time around, and I immediately knew that filling him in on that was about to make more trouble.  He didn't say anything, but his face shifted--just slightly--into the expression that generally means he's about to prove someone wrong. Noah does not like to be told that it cannot be done.  He got in the captain seat and rode the bike, solo, down the block and back.  He still had the stubborn eyes when he returned.  “Let me try it, just me, with the dog” he said.  Skeptical, and still limping slightly from an ankle sprain in recovery, I handed over the leash and watched with some trepidation, but they managed it up and then back together.  I knew by the time they returned that I’d be in that backseat before we got home, so I gave up my resistance, and gave it a go.  It was a long straight 5 blocks home at that point, just one stop sign, and sure enough, we managed.  A bit terrifying, true, but we made it, and safe. 

Within days, we’d improved dramatically, and though it will never be as easy or efficient as our nicer solo bikes, we’ve come to love the tandem, partly because we made it work even against all odds and common sense.  Every time with ride with Malaya we are a bit of a spectacle, and have caused at least a few people to widen their eyes and jump to the side of the river trail bike path when we come through.  One of these Thursday nights we need to ride up to that bike shop, still together, and dog alongside, to show it can be done. 

Within a week or two of getting the bike fixed up, we took it from home down the river trail to listen to some music and get a drink with a friend passing through town.  On the way home, riding in the dark, all I could see where the edges of the trail whipping by, Noah’s white shirt billowing into my face as the cool air from the river broke up the July heat.  Though I couldn’t really see where we were going, I am learning to trust that we are still on the path.  We’re learning to communicate, and to roll with the motion a bit more, rather than fighting for balance, working against each other.  We’ve relaxed into the sway and motion a bit more, so we don’t freeze up and tip over. 

On that night-time river trail ride, just before whooping through sprinklers and letting Malaya really open up and run, we were laughing and shouting over each other, too, trying get on the bike and also to remember the words to a Ray Bradbury line we both love:  “drunk and in charge of a….No, no, it’s…as an Irish police report..wait, intoxicated?...right pedal up!….no, drunk on life?…NO, No, I HAVE IT!” It was Noah who remembered the first half:  “I was drunk and in charge of a bicycle, as an Irish police report once put it.”   And that set us straight to finish triumphantly together as we launched the bike forward:  “Drunk on LIFE, that is!  Filled with one half fear and one half adventure!”    That line has never seemed more apt than as we pedaled off into the dark, leaning ever more eagerly into our own unique mix of fear and adventure. 

Time of uprooting

Dozens of heads of garlic hang drying in the entryway to our short-term summer rental apartment; a place to live, but not quite a home.  We harvested these just before leaving Oregon, a task squeezed into the end of one of those very busy days of packing and moving preparations.  Digging and pulling out of the long beds at the B-street farm at dusk after integrating our 6 hens into their flock, it was the most literal sort of pulling up roots.  Some came out easily, giant, plump heads and thick necks.  Others took a bit of digging; the garlic harvest was an impromptu addition to the chicken drop, so we dug without tools, sinking just our hands deep in the warm floodplain soil in the almost-dark. 

Here in Missoula, with hot August air carrying a bit of forest fire smoke, the garlic seems to be curing well.  The outer layers of skin have dried and tightened to a papery sheen. The roots, curled and frazzled at the base of each head, have dried to a crackle too.

I have a habit of testing them as I walk by, brushing my fingers against those roots that still cling to some small clumps of Willamette Valley clay.  I’m not sure I’ve ever felt a kinship to garlic before, but something about them hanging suspended soil-less in the air strikes a bit close to our own uprooted state.   We’ll have to move out of this summer rental next week, garlic and all.  As we clean and box up the garlic for winter storage, we’ll leave some of those biggest cloves at the top, hoping to find some new local soil for all of us to sink into before winter.