The Lost Art of Homestead Trimming

Twenty some years ago I would routinely sit in a circle with women. Our days would start early and end late, consisting of KMUD radio shows, warm soups or sandwiches, abundant stories that would lift or break our hearts, and weed. We were trimmers, and we spent months out of the year clipping away in a circle, reminiscent of both knitting or crochet groups or even public self therapy sessions. I could write intimate stories about those days, and I have been asked by a few locals to get it down before those tales and ways of living are gone to the past. But some sacred spaces should always remain as such; sacred. And those trimming days sure were something special.

Though the cannabis industry was here well before it was noticed (before legalization), the notoriety that has ensued has been a bit of buzz kill. We women wore comfy jeans, Blundstones, sweaters, hats, and scarves, and stoked fires and propane heaters. We’d show up in a cold shop while our breath signaled the temperature as it was the only thing that carried warmth. But soon the women would come in, one by one, driving down the dirt roads in old trucks, 4-wheelers or little cars that barely had clearance over those mountain roads. Soon the room was warm with love. Some days we’d talk all day, some days not at all. Books on tape, headphones to catch some space, or we’d listen to one woman’s story over and over again until she healed, knowing we too would be given the same grace when heartache hit home.

Things were different in almost every way back then, and I say back then because it’s been almost 10 years since the circles started shrinking. Tables have been placed in rooms with fancy work chairs, and bins of sticks, shake, and leaf line the walls as every piece of the plant is processed and weighed. Yes, the boss still comes in to inspect the buds and brings coffee and treats in the afternoon, and KMUD is still the station playing, but the overhead lights, the air purifier, the metric tags….

Here at Alpenglow Farms I continue the ways of the past and hand trim all my cannabis. Some of it goes straight to fresh frozen (which still requires it to be processed), but lots still is trimmed to the pound to be packaged for gram, eighth, quarter ounce and half ounce jars. Our cannabis is gorgeous, as is the trim job (though as I’m from the old days I often leave too large of buds which Craig asks me to make smaller to fit the jars; such Sacrilege!). I hear trim machines are replacing hands; times are tough and money is tight and trimming a pound of weed reflects the industry’s current state (it was $250 to trim a pound of weed but is now as low as $75.) Back in the day one could make a real living as a trimmer, and it was seasonal to boot. Now, not so much. To be clear, I support everyone’s choices to do what’s best for them in these changing times, but it’s not just the hand trimmed vs machine trimmed that has changed, but the coming together for this sacred work and community togetherness that has. I’m simply reflecting on not only a lost art, but a huge loss of our communities’ culture.

I’m getting to the point in my life where I’m old enough for nostalgia, and though I hold fast to the old ways of being, I know I’m changing with the times beautifully. I know there are women like me who remember the circles and the laughter and the tears. How we built our lives and the lives of our children and families around those pounds of weed. How we looked forward to the next season and to sitting down and catching up again. Blessed be to those times of old. And blessed be to the new times to come.