This story begins on a weekend in early April. We were having a community potluck at the farm. William and Kathryn (my landlords) invited friends and farmers from up and down the valley, both young and legacy farmers. Up until this point, I could recognize names, recite stories, and understand facts about farmers in the valley, but this was my big debut – my first chance to meet (and hopefully impress) some of these revered characters I had only heard about secondhand.
The potluck was hosted at the creamery warehouse, a refurbished old barn known as The Riviera. It must be a tradition to assign nicknames to outbuildings, trucks, and tractors, because William and Kathryn have creative names for all the above, even nicknames for each other. The Riviera used to be a cow barn during its lifespan with a previous owner, but when William purchased the property, it was eventually remodeled into a multipurpose space for the creamery. The old dirt floor was upgraded to a painted cement floor and plumbing/septic was installed for a bathroom. Most importantly for the business, they constructed a yogurt incubator room and installed a walk-in cooler to keep yogurt and milk. Later, a community farmstand was added in the corner, and a little free store where community members may exchange secondhand clothing, boots, books, and other household items for free. The back half of The Riviera houses chest freezers (for WSDA custom meat raised on the farm) and pallets of glass yogurt jars, lids, and transport boxes. The back wall of The Riviera is lined with windows, where Kathryn’s potted germaniums live during the winter, so they are exposed to some sunlight, but remain sheltered from the cold weather.
The front half of The Riviera is kept vacant to allow indoor parking space for the creamery’s delivery van, a reliable Ford Transit. But with the tug of a rope, the garage door to The Riviera opens wide, and the warehouse is easily converted into a community gathering space. The delivery van gets parked outside, and in its place goes some tables and bunch of dilapidated, mismatched chairs. A few plastic lawn chairs covered in splats of paint, a few squeaky office chairs with torn upholstery, a few rusted metal folding chairs, a few milk crates turned upside down. Farmers aren’t fancy folks when it comes to furniture… but with good food and good company, we got ourselves a fancy feast!
As per usual when farmers get together in Independence Valley, the celebration centered around local, homemade food, dished up in the most waste-free manner, so naturally guests know to BYOP (bring your own plate) and BYOU (bring your own utensils), so no paper or plastic is needed. William and Kathryn were cooking hamburgers on the grill (our own beef patties from cattle raised on the farm, of course), and the other farmers brought side dishes and desserts.
I mingled and ate with some of the retired (legacy) farmers at first, and eventually found a seat next to the younger crowd. I met a young woman who co-owns a vegetable CSA (Community Supported Agriculture) farm nearby in the valley. We started talking about how we discovered farming and shared some techniques about growing vegetables. I eventually admitted to her that I was planning on starting a pumpkin farm, and William was going to lease me the necessary land and equipment. I pointed behind us, and we turned to see the acre of leased land through the south facing windows on the back wall of The Riviera. Rather, she could see it. For me, it felt like the acre was seeing me. It was staring at me, eyeballing me, scanning me up and down… teasing… tantalizing… challenging me like an opponent about to enter a match.
The act of verbalizing my plans that day was profound. Yes, William and Kathryn knew about my plans, and so did some close friends and family. But this farmer was a stranger, someone I just met. She was a young woman who co-owned a farm, and was doing it successfully, so I respected her a great deal and I divulged my goals to her. I felt like someone was holding me accountable now. Unlike family and friends, who are usually gracious, forgiving, and nonjudgmental… strangers might judge me if I messed up. If I chickened out or cancelled my plans or didn’t follow through, I might be labeled as “all talk, no game.” Just a “wannabe farmer” or a “dreamer.”
A few other young and legacy farmers overheard me as well… so I felt a new sense of urgency and pressure to make my farm happen. As a newcomer in the valley, I didn’t want to disappoint any of the longtime, respected members of the community… especially since I just met many of them, any we hardly got passed first impressions.
That night after the potluck wrapped up, The Riviera was closed, and all the friends and farmers departed, I had a moment alone to reflect. I thought, “Well, there’s no turning back now, I’m really doing this.” So, I went out to the acre lease with a soil probe and took the first step to make my farm happen. I counted paces while I made zigzags across the land, taking soil samples about every 50 meters, and collecting the soil plugs in a bucket. I combined the soil plugs in a plastic bag, sent it to the Thurston Conservation District that week, and waited eagerly for the results.
Please stay tuned for the sequel blog post about receiving the soil sample results and breaking ground at Chainy-Stakes Farm.
Copyright, all rights reserved, 2023, Kayla McCarthy.
(Author's whereabouts upon publication: Inside a shipping container at an overseas military base, living it up on deployment).