The Place Where We Belong

I think every farmer has that moment: a moment when, all of a sudden, the picture of their future looks very clear and it becomes apparent that they are meant to spend their lives working the land and feeding people for a living. For my husband and me, that moment came four years ago almost to the day.

In the winter of 2012, Kyle had recently graduated from college and I had one semester to go, and we found ourselves in La Crosse, Wisconsin, at the MOSES Organic Farming Conference. And to be completely honest, I am still not quite sure how we got there.

At the end of our college careers, we were both terrified of the future that lay ahead. The job market was bad, our savings was dismal, and increasingly, it felt like our undergraduate degrees didn't matter at all. We desperately wanted to find work that mattered. Work that inspired us to get out of bed every morning. Work that made a difference. Even more, we were falling deeply in love. The idea of finding careers that would drive us in different directions felt inevitable. We wanted to live our whole life together, not just the nights and weekends.

For some reason unbeknownst to either of us, with no farming experience, no money and minimal business savvy, one day we decided that beginning a vegetable farm was the best option for our future. We had no point of reference for this fanciful dream, and I don't know if either of us truly believed it would ever become a reality. I think it was mostly an idyllic vision we dreamed up with one another late at night after yet another disappointing job search, a silly game to get us through a sad time in our lives.

On a whim, in early 2012, I decided to apply for a scholarship to the MOSES Organic Farming Conference through a SARE grant and won. I convinced Kyle to spend the $200 to come with me.

We were running late to that first conference four years ago, waking up at some ungodly hour to make it to La Crosse and then somehow managing to lock our keys in the car. I selected my first workshop at the conference based largely on proximity to the front door. I ran in late and found a seat on the floor.

Farm diversification was the subject. The legendary Kat Becker and Tony Schultz of Stoney Acres Farm were the presenters. I had no idea who they were. I had never heard of their farm. I didn't even really understand the concept of community supported agriculture (CSA) until they so eloquently shared it with the room. The couple spoke frankly. They shared their struggles with a room full of strangers eager to learn their trade. For 90 minutes, I sat in awe listening to all the ways their business had changed and evolved over time (and how that would likely continue for many years to come). I listened to their dreams of expanding their beef herd, bottling their own bloody mary mix with farm tomatoes, and beginning a regular pizza night. Their ideas were many, and they weren't afraid to share them. The collaboration and openness among these conference-goers was immediately apparent.

My workshop ended and had never felt more sure of anything. The life I wanted was there, conceptualized in front of me. I wanted to build a life and a business and a family with my partner, and I wanted these things to be able to coexist on a beautiful piece of Earth. I wanted to run my own business with a solid foundation of CSA memberships and expand in diverse directions as time, energy and creativity allowed. I wanted to get people excited about food and agriculture again. I wanted to build a farm that people wanted to come to. I wanted to build community. I wanted to grow healthy, nourishing food that enriched that land instead of depleting it. The crazy scheme of a farm we'd dreamt up suddenly didn't feel crazy at all.

As I digested all I'd just heard, I ran across the sprawling venue that houses some three-thousand eager farmers, future farmers, students and supporters. In all the chaos, I found my future husband somewhere in the middle of the trade show floor. We stopped and looked at each other, connected despite all the participants pushing past us on either side.

"I want to start a CSA farm," I exclaimed.

"We've talked about that before," he replied. "It's so much risk. People will invest in us, and that's not fair. If we really do this, we're not going to have any idea what we're doing for a long time."

"I didn't understand it before. It's not too much risk. Risk is the whole point. People will want to support us. People will want to invest in us. I think this is the right thing for us. We don't have any money, but we won't need it. It's the perfect way to start a business. I want to start a CSA farm," I cried out.

"Okay," he said.

We decided right then and there that this farming daydream of ours didn't have to be some fantastic notion pushed to the backburner for the next twenty years of our lives. It could be a reality right now. We were surrounded by the most welcoming and supportive group of people in the country. They all had begun their own farms and they were eager to share their experiences.

We spent the next 36 hours in a bubble. We separated for workshops on different subjects, coming back together in between to share everything we learned. We talked to farmers, experts and friends. We studied the products on the trade show floor. By 5:00 p.m. on Saturday afternoon, we left the Organic Farming Conference with more than just knowledge. We left with a vision for our future.

Fast forward to 2016—just last weekend, in fact. We have just returned home from another year of attending this extraordinary conference, and we are no longer those kids walking around with stars in our eyes. We went to the Organic Farming Conference with direction, with certain things we wanted to learn and knowledge we hoped to acquire. We visited with farming friends. We made new ones. We went to the trade show seeking out specific items we need for our farm. We got more involved in the events and activities in the spaces between the workshops. We used our winding drives to and from La Crosse to deeply and intensively check in with each other about what we want and what we are working towards on our farm.

After five years, the conferences have begun to blur together. A rush of flannel, friends, free-flowing coffee, beer, resources and thought-provoking conversation. Yet one thing always remains the same. This conference is the one place where I truly feel at home. At the MOSES Organic Farming Conference, I am able to understand the bigger picture and our place within it (winding as the path will be). I'm so grateful I was able to stumble my way through those doors four years ago.