One family’s battle to save a livelihood after milking goes sour
Thursday,January2nd,2020
Viewers around the world felt the heartbreak that engulfed the Coombs family as they shut down their decades-old dairy in mid-2018.
There was video of Curtis in the darkened barn, getting ready for the morning milking. One news team zoomed in on Curtis and his dad, Guy, as they guided their prized Holsteins into a stock trailer for a one-way trip to other dairies or slaughter.
Then there was Curtis and his wife, Carilynn, standing in a quiet barnyard, fighting tears, as they talked of selling off the farm’s prized herd — and maybe even the dream of raising their two sons while farming.
One day after most cows disappeared from their barns and fields, Curtis told of his 3-year-old, Alexander, saying to him: “All the cows are gone. I said ‘yeah.’ He said, (Curtis choked back tears), ‘Should I go find them for you?'”
No matter how the family searched for ways for keeping milking going, nothing viable emerged in the weeks after processor Dean Foods wrote to say the farm’s milk contract would end in 90 days.
“They say when one door closes another opens,” recalled Curtis’ mom, Ginger. “Doors didn’t just close. They slammed.”
But the Coombs family has wedged a foot in that door since then.
Even though milking is over, they’re unwilling to give up on seeing a third generation make a go of it in farming.
And many people, including Kentucky agricultural boosters and Chip and Joanna Gaines, stars of the HGTV show Fixer Uppers, are pulling for them, offering a combined $148,000 to support their survival strategy.
“We’ve had to figure out a diverse source of income,” Carilynn said. “Beef is cyclical. So are corn and soybeans.”
Their reinvention began with an ice cream-selling food truck, which has helped pay some bills. But the bigger plans are more ambitious and could take years to unfold and give them a livelihood.
The couples’ Jericho Farmhouse business involves building a small market store on their 467 acres featuring eggs, cheese and produce. Their place along Jericho Lake Road, three miles east of Interstate 71, is rapidly transforming as a bedroom community of Louisville. Residential development is pushing quickly into Henry and fast-growing Oldham County.
That’s sending a lot of traffic past neighboring Keepers seafood restaurant and the Coombs property across the road. If the store goes well, they’d like to re-start a small milking operation and open a processing facility to make their own cheese, butter, fresh milk and ice cream.
It’s a lot to take on, Ginger said, but “this is probably what the family farm of the future looks like.”
Not a great bet
Conservative estimates put the endeavor at $500,000, half for the ice cream truck and store, and the balance for a plant that must meet all USDA requirements.
Nothing about the plan is easy or guaranteed to work, if the current crisis in farm country is any indication. Family farms nationwide have battling rising production costs and low commodities prices.
The U.S. lost more than 100,000 farms between 2011 and 2018, and a staggering 12,000 of those came between 2017 and 2018, according to agricultural census data. Dairy farmers who survived the recession have been squeezed by lower dairy consumer demand, oversupply and retail giants Kroger and Walmart entering the milk processing business, cutting small farmers out of the supply chain.
In Henry County, half of the 12 dairies in operation when extension agent Levi Berg took the job four years ago are now out of business, and the word is a few others may be up for sale soon, Berg said.
The Coombs family fought extinction by dividing the work among themselves. Guy and his brother handled hay and other chores. Ginger fed calves twice a day while running a bookkeeping and tax-preparation business.
Ginger recalled the conversation she and Curtis had when he needed to write essays for his college applications. He’d put it off and finally admitted his reluctance: If he left the farm for school, would he be able to come home and work there?
His parents assured him he’d have a place. After graduating from University of Kentucky with an agriculture education degree, he returned to Jericho Acres and took over the herd and milking.
To grow bigger, they took out loans to buy two neighboring farms, a total of 308 acres on top of the original 167, which was paid for years ago. That move in 2014 expanded the ground for more hay and allowed Curtis to grow the Holstein fold to 240.
Carilynn, a Graves County native from a tobacco- and dairy-farming family, met Curtis in animal science classes at UK. The two married in 2014 and started a family, first with Alexander, now 4, then Anderson, 2. Nora Beth, 9 months, debuted in March.
@amodernmilkmaid, as Carilynn is known on Twitter and Instagram, is the farm’s storyteller, sharing photos of family, the farm and the latest developments.
She’s been a force in creating the Farmhouse business plan she hopes can someday morph into an agri-tourism attraction. It’s worth the battle, the 31-year-old said. “All Curtis ever wanted to do was milk cows and work with his dad. I’ve wanted to support that.”
While she describes herself as a “total millennial,” she’s the opposite of many of her citified peers, never considering moving to a big city away from friends and family to live among strangers because “that just seems insane to me.”
Then things went sour
Everything seemed to be going fine with the dairy until March 2018.
That’s when the Dean letter arrived, warning of the cancellation in 90 days. Sagging sales and Walmart’s decision to launch its own processing plant in Fort Wayne, Indiana, were key factors.
The company that had supplied private-label milk and other dairy goods to the giant retailer wound up dropping more than 100 small dairies in eight states, including 19 in Kentucky. The company also shuttered its production plant in Louisville.
The Coombs family’s scramble to find another co-op or buyer for their milk turned up nothing. Most of the dairies tied to Dean in Kentucky have since shut down.
Even with three months notice, Ginger recalled being in disbelief. She wasn’t convinced at first they’d have to sell the herd and abandon what her husband’s family had done since the ’50s.
“This is all we’d ever done. You really didn’t think it was happening,” she said. “It took a while to understand it wasn’t our fault.”
As the June deadline approached and no other buyers for their milk emerged, Curtis sold all but 15 of their Holsteins to other dairies. Several went to meat processors for slaughter.
The proceeds helped the farm add beef cattle, but the first significant check from that line of business won’t arrive until this spring when they take 60 Angus feeder cows to market.
Knowing that doubt hovers over Curtis’ future has made it all the more wrenching, Guy said.
“My dad told me, ‘If you work hard, you can make a living at this.’ I can’t say that to Curtis,” he said.
