A Raw-Milk Raid Leads to a Special Thanksgiving

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A

Raw-Milk Raid Leads to a Special Thanksgiving

After a Kentucky

raw-milk farmer gets busted in Ohio,

his shareholders decide to help run the farm and its distribution business http://www.businessweek.com/smallbiz/content/nov2006/sb20061121_167591.htm?chan=smallbiz_smallbiz+index+page_policy

by E. Gumpert

On

Thanksgiving, Gelhaus, a 39-year-old mom and student at the University of Cincinnati,

will drive over an hour to the Double O Farms in Verona, Ky.

Once at the tiny farm, she, her husband, and three children (ages 6, 8, and 18)

will spend several hours dispensing milk from a holding tank into dozens of

glass bottles, and then affixing lids.

Once

the work is done, " We'll just sit and talk, " she says.

The

story of how Gelhaus and her family came to spend this holiday working and

frolicking on a farm isn't about charity, but rather about how a seemingly

straightforward business investment turned into a legal crisis—and then

evolved into something much bigger, something involving community and caring.

Because the legal part wasn't resolved until earlier this month, Gelhaus and

others involved in the story didn't want to talk about it until now.

It

all began in October, 2004, when Gelhaus went on a health kick. She had spent

much of the previous two winters in doctors' offices and emergency rooms with

sick kids. " The doctors knew us so well, we were on their Christmas card

list, " she recalls. A major part of the new regimen included raw milk,

which is unpasteurized and unhomogenized, and viewed by increasing numbers of

consumers and health experts as healthier than the pasteurized stuff because

its enzymes and beneficial bacteria haven't been destroyed by the heat of

pasteurization.

Personal

Consumption

Because

the sale of raw milk is illegal in Ohio and Kentucky (and 23 other states), she

joined a herd-share program she had heard about which had just been launched by

and Dawn Oaks, owners of the Double O Farms. She joined about 160 other

families as shareholders, investing $225 for three shares, which gave her

partial ownership of the farm's 15 cows. She also agreed to a maintenance fee

of $80 a month. Her shares entitled her to three gallons of milk each week,

which delivered to various drop-off points

in the Cincinnati

area as a convenience to the shareholders.

The

idea was that they wouldn't be purchasing milk, but instead obtaining it

directly from cows they owned—because even in the states that prohibit

raw milk sales, farmers are allowed to consume their cows' milk (see

BusinessWeek.com, 10/19/06, " States

Target Raw-Milk Farmers " ).

For

, 43 and Dawn, 39, who had chucked conventional careers in inventory

management (for him) and health care (for her), the shareholder arrangement

served two purposes. It allowed them to fulfill their personal desire to make

milk available to consumers in what they believed was a healthier form, and it

enabled them to escape the mass-production-commodity cycle that had seen an

estimated 1,500 Kentucky dairies bite the dust in the decade between 1993 and

2003 alone, says .

Dairy

Raid

For

nearly a year-and-a-half, everything went as planned. The milk arrived on

schedule and the health of Gelhaus' children improved dramatically. But on Mar.

6 of this year, everything changed. At about 1:15 in the afternoon, Oaks

arrived at a Cincinnati

parking lot for what he thought would be a routine delivery, distributing milk

to his shareholders. He got out of his truck, opened the trailer, and began

handing out bottles of milk to a few of the dozen or so shareholders present.

Gelhaus

wasn't there, but another shareholder who was, Joanne , of Morrow, Ohio, remembers vividly

what happened next. " I was placing empty bottles in carriers when I

noticed a Cincinnati

police cruiser moving through the parking lot slowly toward the trailer.

Another cruiser followed. Officers moved toward the cow-share owners and told

them not to pick up the milk that had already been set out, and actually moved

in to prevent members from picking up the milk. "

Out

of several unmarked cars emerged men in plain clothes who " gathered near

the tailgate of the trailer, " says. Only one would identify

himself, an agent of the Ohio Dept. of Agriculture (ODA), she says. Other

agents were there from the Kentucky Public Health Dept. and the U.S. Food &

Drug Administration. Joanne thinks there were about eight agents there,

plus the four Cincinnati

police. As the agents began confiscating the milk both from the truck and from

a few shareholders, and loading it into an ODA van, she says, they told

objecting shareholders, " What's happening here is not your concern. "

" All

Kinds of Laws "

This

upset the shareholders, who began shouting that the milk belonged to them, that

the agents had no right to it. One of the shareholders stood on the trailer's

tailgate and waved her shareholder documents at the agents, who ignored her.

Sensing

the situation might be getting out of hand, the Cincinnati cops called for reinforcements,

and two additional cruisers arrived. In the meantime, several plainclothes

agents moved to separate Oaks from his shareholders. For the soft-spoken

43-year-old, who grew up on a Mississippi

farm and had only once in his life even been stopped for speeding, it was all

becoming a terrifying blur. They moved him toward one of the unmarked cars and ordered

him in. " They asked me what I was doing. One said, 'You're in a lot of

trouble. You've broken all kinds of laws.' "

Oaks

didn't know what to say. " I was ignorant. I didn't know it was illegal to

drink milk. I hate to sound ignorant. "

Then

they moved him from that car into a second car, and the routine started over

again, except more intensively. One agent was shouting from the back, and

another in the front was demanding that he write something that sounded to him

like a confession that he was selling unpasteurized milk. He began feeling ill.

" They were telling me what to write, that I wouldn't sell milk. " He

believes he started to write something, but can't remember what.

" We

Are 911 "

The

ODA produces a " Witness Statement " with block printing, signed by

Oaks and an ODA investigator: " We run a cow share business in KY. Sell

shares of cows to people for $75 a share.… " It includes a few more

details about the maintenance fee and delivery schedule and concludes,

" Whole milk is not pasteurized. "

When

Oaks emerged from the car, several shareholders said he looked terrible and

asked the officers to call 911. " We are 911, " one of the officers

stated. A shareholder decided to call 911 on her cell phone, seeking an

ambulance. The agents moved

into a third car. He told them he was feeling awful, got out of the car, and

slumped to the ground. An ambulance arrived and took him to a hospital. His

blood pressure had soared to more than 200-over-156. " They were shocked I

wasn't dead, " Oaks recalls. He was released later that day, apparently

without having suffered a heart attack.

An

ODA spokesperson says, " Our officials questioned Mr. Oaks, so did federal

officials. They were trying to learn about what he was doing, what the

substance was, and why it was being brought into Ohio. " Officials from the Kentucky

Public Health Dept. didn't respond to questions.

Volunteers

for Milking

Oaks

continued to feel ill over the next few days. He had nightmares of " police

and agents coming out from behind bushes and buildings. " He couldn't milk

the cows. A few days later, the feelings worsened. " I was choking, I

couldn't get my breath. " His wife took him back to the hospital, and this

time he was admitted for several days.

The

one piece of good news was that his shareholders had sprung into action. More

than 100 met within days at a local church and tried to figure out how they

could help the farm and the Oaks family. The most immediate issue was the cows

these shareholders owned—they needed to be milked twice a day, and most of

the city-folk shareholders knew little about cows beyond the fact that their

milk arrived in bottles every week.

Fortunately,

three shareholders who lived close to the Double O Farms had also been farmers,

and at one of several meetings the shareholders held, these individuals

volunteered to do the milking. The next pressing issue was how to get the milk

bottled and out to the shareholders, since couldn't deliver.

Stack

of Bills

This

is where Gelhaus dove in. " I took over coordinating car pooling…We

had to coordinate deliveries for 160 families. " Several dozen shareholders

became involved in shuttling milk from the farm to shareholders in Kentucky and Ohio,

some driving several hours each way. Others handled bottling, and still more

volunteered to gather hay and do yard work around the farm, or bring food to

Dawn and her three children, all under age 10.

As

the winter wore on,

would be hospitalized twice more. Dawn says doctors concluded he was suffering

from post-traumatic stress syndrome, a stress disorder most common among

soldiers in battle. A couple of shareholders with psychology backgrounds

provided counseling.

Adding

to the family's stress was that they didn't have health insurance. By the end

of spring, 's

medical bills were approaching $50,000. And then there was the matter of his

legal problems—stemming from Kentucky, Ohio, and the federal

government. As things turned out, Kentucky

officials backed off from filing formal charges, after an informal hearing by

the Kentucky Milk Safety Board. But Ohio

eventually filed charges accusing

of illegally selling raw milk and an unlabeled product. His legal bills were

soaring past $10,000.

Designated

Drivers

By

the summer, life finally began improving.

was feeling well enough to work on the farm. He was able to negotiate a

reduction in his medical bills with the hospitals. Shareholders passed the hat

to take care of his legal bills. Two shareholders even agreed to loan him funds

to move the farm to a badly needed larger tract of land a half hour from his

existing farm.

The

family decided not fight a protracted legal battle to avoid incurring

additional legal expenses and stress. On November 2,

went to a county municipal court in Reynoldsburg,

Ohio, and pleaded no contest to

violating the state's dairy licensing and labeling laws. He was fined $415,

along with an additional $85 in court costs. The FDA also sent him a warning

letter against interstate sales of raw milk, which leaves open the possibility

of legal action.

Shareholders

have scaled back their involvement in the farm's activities as has recovered his health. But the need

for car poolers like Gelhaus remains, in order to get milk delivered to

shareholders, since doesn't want to

challenge the FDA's prohibition about crossing state lines to make deliveries

in Ohio.

Show

of Appreciation

On

Thursday, many shareholders will be giving thanks for —and for

them. " This crisis brought us more strongly together, " says Lynn

Laufer, a Cincinnati

shareholder. " We've become a unique, tightly knit group. "

Adds

Gelhaus, " The crisis showed us just how connected we are. The hardships

pointed out to us that we need the farmer and the farmer needs us. "

Gelhaus is traveling to the farm on Thursday not because her work is required,

but as a personal gesture of appreciation for and Dawn, to allow them to

take the day off.

For

updates on this situation, and additional thoughts based on having investigated

a half-dozen raw milk enforcement actions over the last few months in California, Michigan, Ohio, and Kentucky,

see my blog, www.thecompletepatient.com.

Gumpert is

author of Burn Your Business Plan! What

Investors Really Want from Entrepreneurs and How to Really Start Your Own Business.

His Web site is www.davidgumpert.com.

www.majestyfarm.com

If the people lead.....

eventually leaders will follow.

Jefferson