Our Story

The who?  Accidental Farmers?  Does this mean you fall down a lot?

Well no.

It means I had no intention of becoming a farmer.  I got into this whole mess on ACCIDENT.

Seriously.

Photo courtesy JC Imagery


I grew up in a cow-town an hour out of Seattle (our high school was called Cow Pie High because of the smell emanating from the local dairy farm).  My intention was to head out as far as possible from that location and move west to the city of Seattle - with it's huge expanse of asphalt and no garden for mom to make me weed.

I ended up going further east, into more vastness.  Only this was grass vastness.

And, at 21, married a man on acreage.  Who not only had the farm, but it was his grandparents farm.  A place where he was raised and his dad was raised.



For the first 20 years I mowed the place (bought a rider), walked through the barn a few times a year, took over the garden when my husband grew WAAAAYYY too much okra, and looked out the dining room window at the pasture, mountain and river.

Dreaming of a way to get the hell out of here.

I never intended to live in on a river front, mountain view five acre farm with a barn and a milk house with goats and fences and . . . splitting wood.  And I sure never intended to raise a kid on a farm.

It has taken me - get this - 20+ years to accept that I became a farmer.

Slow learner, I know.

It was Spring of 2014 (and after years of travel, visiting exotic tropical locations and not quite picturing myself living there) that I finally accepted that I live on a farm.

So I am embracing this farming thing whole-hog (only I'm not so sure about raising pigs).

This could be a bumpy ride.  Come watch and have some laughs.

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