On a clear fall morning in Boise, the first thing that greets new arrivals isn’t paperwork or a probation officer. It’s a llama.
Then the dogs, the alpaca, the ducks, and finally, the rows of lettuce, vertical planters of strawberries and the specialty varietals like mustard greens that help keep this small nonprofit alive.
This is Boise Vertical Farm, tucked into an established residential neighborhood instead of hidden behind razor wire on the edge of town. People don’t come here to serve time. They come to serve their time (court-ordered community service hours) while getting something most reentry programs never really offer — space to heal and a reason to hope.
At the center of it all is Executive Director Jeff Middleton. A pharmacist by trade for 40 years, someone grounded in systems and science, a reluctant farmer, and a recovering addict who knows firsthand what it means to go from “a great job and all that good stuff to being homeless in about three weeks.”
“I’ve been an addict since I was born,” he says, matter-of-factly. “Addiction is a disease. And we use punishment to treat a disease, which doesn’t make sense to me. That’s kind of like putting somebody in jail for having diabetes.”
Boise Vertical Farm is his answer to that contradiction.
From Ski Trip to Second Chances
The idea didn’t come in a treatment center or at a policy summit. It came on a ski trip.
Middleton was in Jackson Hole when he stumbled on Vertical Harvest, a gleaming, three-story hydroponic operation growing produce for local restaurants.
“They’re commercial, for-profit,” he explains. “But they have a nonprofit wing, and they employ physically handicapped people. All the surfaces and conveyor belts are built so people in wheelchairs can slide under and work. It’s brilliant.”
Driving back to Boise, he couldn’t shake the thought: We could do that here. But for people in recovery.
When he’d gone through the system himself 15 years earlier, his options for community service were bleak — fold used clothes at a thrift store, pick up trash on the side of the road, or sit in jail.
“I had over 200 hours. That’s toward the high side,” Middleton says. “And none of it was enough to stimulate or help make any interest out of it. Meanwhile, I’ve learned since then that people in recovery are pretty darn smart. They’re bright. We need to give people something that stimulates their mind. They should learn something; they should get something out of this.”
At Boise Vertical Farm, they do.
A Pharmacist Who Swore He’d Never Farm
Middleton’s résumé is an unlikely mashup: bachelor’s in pharmacy (back when it was a five-year program), a master’s in business, a minor in microbiology, and stints as a clinical systems analyst building computer systems for doctors, nurses, and pharmacists in Seattle. His specialty as a pharmacist? Antibiotics. His family background? Dairy farms and ranches.
“Both sides were farmers and ranchers,” he says. “My parents were the first generation that lived in town. My Dad was also a pharmacist. Before them, it was all dairy farms, farms around Twin Falls. My grandfather was a dairy farmer in Montana. My dad’s family farmed around Rexburg.”
He laughs. “I tried not to become a farmer because it was too much work. I didn’t see any fun in it. But here we are.”
It turned out the combination was exactly what Boise Vertical Farm needed. His science background helps with soil chemistry, fertilizers, and growing systems. His retail and business experience helps him run the markets, manage restaurant accounts, and keep a small nonprofit alive on a shoestring.
The budget this year will likely land around $65,000, some years up towards $100,000. There is, at the moment, no payroll. “We don’t pay anybody,” says Middleton. “I hope that changes soon,” and adds with a grin, “I’d like to get paid.”
Farming as Reentry, Not Punishment
Boise Vertical Farm’s model is simple in concept and dynamic in practice. People sentenced to community service, usually for drug and alcohol–related offenses, can choose to serve their hours on one of the three farm locations.
Participants come through Idaho Department of Corrections, Ada County Sheriff’s Office Alternative Sentencing, and local courts. Some have 10 hours to complete; others show up with more than 200.
“One of the first things is, people have to have something to do,” Middleton says. “Gardening, farming, is a fabulous fit.” Most of the people who show up have never grown anything. They’ve never planted a seed, never watered a garden, never thought much about where food comes from.
“So we teach basic gardening skills,” he explains. “They mess around with the llama and the alpaca and the dogs and the ducks. They get to mess around in the dirt, grow things. We make people sweat, and that’s a good thing. It kind of gets you down to basics.”
The work is physical and unglamorous. Repairing irrigation lines, planting starts, harvesting lettuce, pulling weeds, fixing whatever has broken that day — We always have something that needs to be fixed or is broken,” he says. “Irrigation always needs repair.”
The labor reduces costs for the farm, which survives by selling to restaurants and a local organic grocer, the Boise Co-op, but the benefit goes both ways. The people working hours for the farm are doing more than just checking a box for the court. Middleton sees the farm as a “step in between” formal treatment and the expectation to immediately become a fully functioning, employed, taxpaying citizen.
“Alcohol and drugs mess with your brain chemistry,” he says. “It takes about six months on the average person to correct that brain chemistry. Many times, people in early recovery, their brain’s so foggy they can’t find their way home. And we push them into going to work before they’re ready. They’re frustrated, challenged beyond belief, given a whole bunch of new problems. They need a step in between. Boise Vertical Farm can fill that.”
Lettuce, Mustard Greens, and a Different Kind of ROI
On the surface, Boise Vertical Farm looks like any other small specialty producer fighting for market share in a crowded local food scene. They sell lettuce and custom mixes to six local restaurants and the Boise Co-op, and occasionally supply edible flowers and other unusual items to chefs who like to experiment. Boise has a very popular farm-to-table food scene with many local restaurants boasting award-winning chefs and culinary experiences.
“We are never going to be the least expensive produce provider in the market,” Middleton says. “We can’t produce acres and acres. We’re not going to be sold at Walmart and we don’t want to be at Walmart. But people can know they get a quality product.”
Their current mainstays:
- Ovation mix: arugula, leafy greens, a hint of mustard, “It’s got a little zip,” he says.
- Custom mustard mix developed with local Bown Crossing restaurant, House of the Little Pig, “It’s all mustard, and it’s hot. But the chef serves it with a particular dressing that absorbs the heat, so you get fabulous flavor.”
The farm also grows nasturtiums for KIN, an innovative Boise culinary experience whose James Beard award winning chef, Kris Komori, uses the peppery edible flowers and leaves in salads and even pickled, paired with tomatoes.
“Chefs like that are looking for things out of the ordinary,” Middleton says. “We’ll email and say, ‘We’ve got such-and-such, can you use it?’ And he always comes up with something.”
The sales aren’t just about revenue — they’re about relationships. For restaurants, buying from Boise Vertical Farm is a way to support reentry and recovery without changing their business model.
“Most of what gets us in the door is that we’re a nonprofit and a community good,” Middleton says. “We walk in and say, ‘This is what we’ve got. The money goes to helping people in recovery.’ And they get it, especially in restaurants, where alcohol is all around. They see people in trouble with alcohol every day. They’re not in the counseling business. So having somebody making an effort to do something good in the community in that direction, it matters.”
“We’re Already Paying for It”
If there’s one audience Middleton knows he has to persuade, it’s the skeptical taxpayer who sees addiction and crime as a matter of bad choices. “I’ve had people tell me, ‘I’m not going to give a dime to people who make bad decisions,’” he says. He doesn’t mince words in response. “Drugs and alcohol are not an immoral issue. There is a moral component. When I was stealing drugs, taking advantage of the system, I knew it was wrong. I was raised right; I knew the difference between right and wrong. But I was pushed into it by the drive for my next hit, my next whatever I could get. That compulsion keeps people moving down the wrong path.”
He’s quick to point out that the status quo isn’t free. The National Institute of Health, he notes, estimate that the U.S. spends roughly $2,000 per man, woman, and child on alcohol and drug issues every year. And those costs are compounded by the economic fallout of incarceration itself. In 2022, the unemployment rate for formerly incarcerated individuals hovered around 33 percent, nearly ten times higher than the national unemployment rate of 3.5 percent in the fourth quarter of that same year.
“You’re already spending it,” Middleton says. “We’re paying police to be the intervention for drugs and alcohol. Police were never meant to be counselors. They don’t have time, and typically it’s not a personality fit. We send people out to prison in the desert — out of sight, out of mind. That does nothing but increase expenses.”
By contrast, he argues, programs like Boise Vertical Farm give people a realistic shot at becoming contributors instead of recurring costs. “There are people who need to be in prison,” he says. “Violent crime, gun crimes, sex crimes – we don’t take those. We’re in a neighborhood. Prison has its place for people who prey on others. But the people we get are 20-somethings, 30-somethings — you met some of them today. They’re nice people. They’re bright. They’ve screwed up. They’ll be the first to admit it. They don’t make excuses. They say, ‘I’m paying my dues. And once I’m done, I’m headed down the right path.’”
Not all make it. Some stumble, some relapse. But Middleton estimates that 80 to 85 percent of the people who finish their time at the farm stay clean and sober, starkly different from the national recurring relapse rate he cites at around 84 percent.
“That’s high,” he says. “We as addicts don’t usually get clean time the first time. It takes three or four go-rounds. It took me four, and I was in my 50s when it finally stuck. If we can reduce the percentage of relapse just by working with people, we’re miles ahead.”
One Man’s Truck Driver Success Story
Some of the farm’s success stories disappear quietly into ordinary life, which, Middleton points out, is exactly the point. But a few stay in touch. He talks most fondly about James, who came through Idaho Department of Corrections after prison time for heroin possession and use. “He decided he was going to get clean,” says Middleton.
Through Vocational Rehabilitation, where addiction is a covered service, James got help with training. He wanted to be a truck driver. Voc Rehab sent him to truck-driving school and connected him with a job at Sysco, the food distribution company.
“Now he’s a delivery driver in the West for them,” Middleton says. “Great job, good money. He helps at heroin anonymous meetings. He’s cleaned up. He’s a fantastic guy.”
At the farm, James did “everything” — worked markets, harvested, planted, fixed irrigation, tackled odd repairs. He stayed for a couple of years, long enough to cycle through several growing seasons, selling garden starts in the spring, produce in summer and fall, preparing beds in winter.
He’s not alone. Middleton says they’ve placed several participants into career-track jobs, sometimes with benefits and upward mobility. That, he says, is one of the quiet keys to preventing relapse.
“Studies have shown that a good job, career possibilities, benefits – those help people stay clean,” says Middleton. “You may not jump out of bed and say, ‘Yippee, I get to go to work,’ but at least at the end of the week you can look back and say, ‘I did it.’”
Policy, Public Safety, and the People in the Dirt
Jeff Middleton is clear that Boise Vertical Farm is not faith-based, but it’s welcoming. He’s Buddhist, and the organization stays intentionally neutral. “Whatever gets you clean and keeps you clean – don’t care,” he says. “We’re faith friendly, open to all. We’ve had churches come out for volunteer days. They pray, they do their thing – fabulous.”
What he is passionate about is policy that recognizes addiction as a chronic disease, not a one-and-done moral failure. The current approach, he says, is too “one size fits all,” and few diseases are less suited to that mindset than addiction.
“Everybody has their own story,” Middleton says. “There are so many components to it. People do much better if we work with them one on one.” For conservative skeptics only focused on public safety, his pitch is straightforward — the question isn’t whether people will come back to the community. It’s how they’ll come back.
Nationally, an estimated 95 percent of incarcerated people will eventually reenter society. In Middleton’s world, nearly 100 percent of the people he sees are nonviolent, often in for possession, sales, or burglary linked to feeding a habit.
“If you don’t give them a chance to recover and be healthy enough to contribute, they go right back to what they know,” he says. “You come out, you get your community service done, you go back to using. Pretty soon, you’re back with the old crowd. Pretty soon, you’re breaking and entering, stealing things you can move quick for a fast buck.”
Programs like Boise Vertical Farm, he argues, are not soft on crime — they’re smart on public safety.
“The traditional way is out of sight, out of mind,” says Middleton. “We can’t afford that. Not financially, not morally, not if you care about your community. We’re not going to solve the world’s problems with alcohol and drugs in our lifetime, there are too many people and not enough of us. But we can put a dent in it.”
How to Find the Farm
There’s no shiny glass tower here, no flashy branding. Boise Vertical Farm runs on grants-usually in the $2,000 to $5,000 range, with one standout $30,000 grant from the Idaho Women’s Charitable Foundation, and on the quiet generosity of local restaurants and neighbors who believe in second chances.
The annual operating budget is under $100,000. The relapse rate among participants is, by Middleton’s estimate, well below the national average. If someone wants to help, he says, the easiest way is simple: buy the lettuce. Or donate.
The farm can be reached through its website, www.BoiseVerticalFarm.com, where potential donors and volunteers can find contact information, send an email, or reach out by text. Just don’t bother calling. “I can’t hear the darn phone in here,” Middleton says, grinning, as he shuffles past a friendly goldendoodle eager for a pet, and someone down the row calls his name. “We’re usually out in the dirt.”