Unmoored

The Geography of Grief - and Memory

An exploration of the physical reminders of loss...

One morning last week, as I was preparing to join a virtual meeting from my dining room table, I decided to brew a cup of decaffeinated coffee. I reached into the cupboard and pulled out a mason jar of ground coffee, which Sami had labeled. Her handwriting stopped me in my tracks. I realized that even in my new place, there are physical reminders of Sami. Reminders that bring me up short, that make me wistful. Or sad.

Last month, I had meetings in Davis on two consecutive days. Rather than make the two hour drive home on the first night - and back on the second morning - I stayed in town. On the second morning, I went for a walk through town and campus before breakfast. The city of Davis has changed since I was a student there nearly 40 years ago; much of the UC Davis campus remains familiar. Especially the Quad. As I walked through the Quad early on that February morning, I remembered eating lunch with Sami when we first started dating in 1988. I felt the physical sensation of walking through campus holding her hand. Of lying in the sun on the grass with my head in her lap.

In my new place, I have a digital picture frame on the sideboard that I see when I walk in my front door. The sideboard was from Sami’s parents; the picture frame was a gift to Sami after she got sick. Friends and family shared photos with Sami - as did I. One of my favorites is a photo I took of the two of us at Sterling Lake in the Sierra Nevada east of Auburn in September 2022. We both look incredibly happy, and my memory of that day is that we thoroughly enjoyed each other’s company. And I realize, whenever that photo comes up in the frame, that Sami likely already had a brain tumor.

Some of these geographical reminders are difficult. While I’ve driven to (and from) Idaho since Sami passed away, I’ve not been ready to drive to New Mexico. Our trip to Las Cruces in January 2023 marked the beginning of our journey with glioblastoma. While I’ve visited Monterey several times since Sami ran the Monterey Bay Half Marathon in November 2022, both visits have been emotionally difficult. 

In the 19 months (tomorrow) since Sami left us, I’ve found that these physical reminders - places and objects - don’t always affect me in the same way. Sometimes, they’ve made me inconsolably sad. Other times, they make me nostalgic and happy for the life we had. Some things, like the jar of coffee, will be used up eventually. Other things, like the places we enjoyed going together, will always be there - and will probably always be bittersweet for me.

Grief seems like a journey through an unfamiliar landscape, in many ways. Sometimes a song, a scent, a place, will remind me of Sami. At the risk of seeming trite, sometimes I’m reminded of the Ted Kleszewiski quote about hitting a baseball:

“How hard is hitting? You ever walk into a pitch-black room full of furniture that you’ve never been in before and try to walk through it without bumping into anything? Well, it’s harder than that.”

In the 10-plus years I played baseball as a kid, I was never a great hitter. But navigating grief seems much much harder than hitting a baseball. I’ve stubbed my toes frequently. My shins are bruised.

But sometimes - more now than 19 months ago - memories bring smiles. A place we both enjoyed can bring me happiness. An object that Sami touched can make me smile. Seeing Sami’s handwriting (on a recipe, or on an envelope) brings back good memories. Maybe the actual journey through these memories - through my grief - helps me navigate more confidently. Maybe I’m feeling my way through a new geography.

Adulting by Myself

When Emma went away to school in 2021, Sami stopped doing my laundry. We didn’t ever discuss it - I think she just felt it was time for me to do my own, which I didn’t mind - she was right! Part of sharing a life is sharing the work. While neither one of us were spectacular housekeepers, we kept up on most chores. We shared the cooking and dishwashing. I took care of the yard and the garden. Sami cleaned the inside of the house and paid the bills. We worked together on home maintenance.

Since she passed, obviously, all of these chores have fallen to me. Some days, I think Sami must be chuckling, telling me, “See - you never really understood everything I did, did you?!” Other days, I find myself saying to her, “I do know how to make the bed and do the laundry - aren’t you impressed?!” At least I’ve impressed myself. The house isn’t a total disaster. I haven’t run out of firewood (yet). The mules and the sheep and the dogs are still alive and seem happy. My diet is reasonably balanced. The house is no more a mess than it was when two of us were here. The bills are getting paid.

This morning, I awoke at 4am worried about all that I needed to accomplish this week. By 4:30, I realized that I needed to get up in a half hour anyway, so I went out to the kitchen to start the coffee. Later, as I washed my breakfast dishes and made the bed before cleaning up for work, I realized that there is a certain momentum associated with routines. My habits, now after a year and a half on my own, are to get up, make coffee, do the crossword puzzle on my iPad, fix breakfast, take care of the livestock, make the bed, and take a shower. Virtually every day. And while I suppose there is some benefit to these habits, there are times when I grow weary of the routine. There are times when I want to let things go. Like this morning. This morning, I decided I was weary of being an adult.

But I didn’t break my routine. I went ahead and made the bed. I did the chores and got to the office before 8am. As I was driving down the hill, I realized that I felt like if I let just one thing go - that if I didn’t make the bed this morning - I’d tumble down the slope of dishevelment and disorder. The dishes and laundry would pile up. I’d run out of hay for the animals. I’d start living on frozen dinners. I wouldn’t get the bills paid. Maybe that’s the benefit of having a routine?

Tonight, I did a quick internet search about the relationship between the loss of a partner and one’s own mortality. Some of the research I looked at indicated that people who lose a partner have a 48 percent increased risk of mortality after becoming widowed. And that this risk is apparently higher for men than for women. For me, at least, I think my routine has helped me cope. My routine has brought some sense of comfort that I can take care of myself. I guess my routine is also a symbolic way of flipping the bird at the cosmos! “See?! I can be an adult! All on my own!!”

Except I’m not “all on my own.” I also realized this evening that my friends and my family play a huge role in all of this. The support of friends and family has been critical in helping me process my grief. I continue to lean on my friends and family - especially on days like this one when I feel like going back to bed and being sad all day (which is ok - sometimes that’s helpful, too). The most helpful support isn’t “get back in there” or “buck up and be strong.” It’s more, “yeah, that sounds really hard” and “give yourself some grace.” This support is also always a part of my motivation, though - I find myself thinking, “what would XXXX think if they saw what a mess my house is?!” or “how would YYYY feel if they knew I didn’t feed the sheep until noon?!”

As I’ve written before, grief is a universal - perhaps the most universal - human emotion. I imagine everyone who reads this blog has experienced grief in some form or another. My grief for Sami began on that evening in January 2023 when the ER doctor told us she had a mass on her brain. My grief intensified through two surgeries, chemo- and radiation-therapy, and her brief time in hospice care. My grief, I’m coming to understand, will also be part of my routine.

One of my favorite characters in Wendell Berry’s fiction is Burley Coulter, who says something to the effect that he never learned anything until he had to. Isn’t that true of all of us? Doesn’t being an adult mean we’re constantly learning? I used to think that by the time I was 30, I’d have things figured out. Now that I’m nearly 58, I’ve realized this will take my entire life - if not longer. But now I need to go cook dinner and stoke the wood stove.

On Loneliness and Being Alone

I’ve never been bothered by being alone. I enjoy working by myself. I enjoy recreating by myself. I don’t think I’m antisocial; I simply appreciate solitude. A friend recently coined the term “omnivert,” and I think that describes me. I oscillate between recharging my batteries by being around people, and recharging them by seeking solitude.

But lately, solitude has felt more like isolation. Being alone feels lonely at the moment. I know that part of my loneliness stems from being in a new community, but I often felt lonely in Auburn after Sami’s passing. My loneliness, I think, comes from a lack of companionship.

Fortunately, I am blessed with amazing friends - friends near and far who have been incredibly supportive through the last 24 months. Friends who have somehow intuited that I needed to hear from them - who have texted, called, or emailed out of the blue. Who continue to simply check in. I am so grateful for this.

In the rangeland and livestock world, wintertime is convention time. Since early December, I’ve traveled to Reno for the California Cattlemen’s Association convention; to Scottsdale, AZ, for the American Sheep Industry Association conference; and to Spokane, WA, for the Society for Range Management conference. In my 35 years of professional life, I’ve been fortunate to make wonderful friends in each of these organizations - friends from all over the world! These conferences provided a much needed chance to reconnect in person - to see old friends and make new ones.

In person. Face-to-face conversations. Handshakes and hugs. Time together. Now that conference season is wrapping up, I’m realizing that these in-person connections are incredibly important to me. In the words of songwriter James McMurtry, they provide “the warmth of a smile and a touch.” Things that can’t be conveyed through a text or a phone call. Companionship.

Someone asked me recently if I dated. I was startled by the question, and answered awkwardly. I realized that I haven’t thought about that question for 37 years. And I don’t know the answer, at least not yet. I do know that being in someone’s company, of having meaningful conversations and sharing a laugh and a meal, is something I miss - something I’d like to have more of in my life at this stage. I don’t know if that’s what dating is, I guess.

I seem to be in an odd place age and experience-wise, too. I work in a field and in an organization where, at nearly 58 years old, I’m past the average age of my colleagues. Some days, I feel old. Other days, I feel like my experience (professional and personal) is valuable. But in all of this, I also am profoundly aware of not wanting to be the creepy old guy in the room. I don’t want to make anyone uncomfortable.

Underlying all of this, I’m realizing this morning, is a sense of regret that Sami and I never talked about what we’d want for each other once one of us was gone. Once we both knew that she had months rather than years to live, I think her hopelessness and grief prevented us from having these conversations. This realization has changed me. I find that I don’t shy away from hard or awkward conversations like I once did. These discussions are still difficult for me, but I find that I feel like I need to have them. That I shouldn’t wait. I suspect that can make others uncomfortable at times, and that my attempts at seeking these kinds of relationships will be clumsy and awkward, as a result. In some respects, I feel like I’m still an uncomfortable teenager, at least between my ears.

Finally, I hope that most of you know by now that writing (and sharing what I write) is my therapy. The act of putting words on “paper” and sending them out into the world helps me understand my thoughts and feelings. Sometimes I worry that my writing will be misconstrued as a cry for help - and this particular essay seems especially at risk for this. Please know that it is not - I’m doing alright. I’m simply trying to figure out where I am in this journey. Thank you for understanding. 

Songs

While music has always been an important part of life for me, these last two years, I’ve found that some songs can invoke laughter, tears, and nostalgia. Sometimes all in the same song. Here are several of the lines and artists that have been especially meaningful for me lately:

“We’ll meet again on some bright highway, with songs to sing and tales to tell.” - Steve Earle

“I’ve grown tired of traveling alone.” - Jason Isbell

“I’m alone in a way that I’ve never been, since you left me behind.” - Sturgill Simpson

“I’ve come back to the mountains and they’re all still standing there.” - Turnpike Troubadours

“For my waking thoughts of you are but extensions of the dream. Without you here beside me, I’ll never know all that they mean.” - Nancy Griffiths

“If we were vampires and death was a joke, I’d go out on the sidewalk and smoke.” - Jason Isbell

“I get up to the mountains, I get up high. I take a look around before it all passes by.” - Reel Time Travelers

“Maybe we’ll get 40 years together, but one day I’ll be gone, or one day you’ll be gone.” - Jason Isbell

“How the short time together lasts so long, makes me strong.” - Nancy Griffiths

“But I still need to feel everyone once in awhile the warmth of a smile and a touch.” - James McMurtry

I like to write. I wish I could write poetry like this. Something to aspire to, I suppose.

What Happened to Empathy and Reason?

Since I first started writing the Foothill Agrarian blog (16 years ago this month), I’ve dedicated this space to building community. Initially (and almost exclusively), I wrote about farming and ranching in the Sierra foothills. Occasionally, I’d take on a more controversial topic, but mostly my posts focused on the challenges and joys of trying to raise sheep and earn at least part of my living doing it. On helping my neighbors understand the good, the bad, and the difficult of being a shepherd. Over the last two years, however, most of my posts have described my experience with caregiving and grief. I’m astounded that my posts have been read more than 494,000 times since February 2009. This is my one-thousandth post.

While I’ve tried to write about difficult topics (none more difficult than those I’ve discussed since 2023), I’ve mostly shied away from politics. My focus has always been to build up my community - I’ve largely avoided argumentative essays. But today, I find that I am compelled to speak out about the topics below.

Social media has the ability to both build up community and tear it apart. Increasingly, platforms like Facebook and X seem focused on the latter - they are either echo chambers for confirming our personal worldview, or shouting matches where facts and nuance don’t matter. I’m choosing to disengage from these platforms, at least for now. Maybe for good.

I realize that many of my friends may disagree with what I’ve written below. To those of you who are close enough friends to have my phone number or email address, I hope we can talk about our perspectives. To those who are casual friends only on social media, I realize that you may decide to unfriend me over these perspectives. I’m entirely fine with that - I firmly believe that the solutions we need to these issues won’t be found in a Facebook post.

______________________________________________________________________

I spent this past week in the company of the brightest rangeland scientists and range managers in the world. Scientists from the best universities on the North American continent. Scientists from federal agencies like the Agricultural Research Service and the U.S. Geological Service. Range managers from the U.S. Forest Service and Bureau of Land Management (BLM). I listened to research talks on how sheep grazing can be used to manage invasive species and reduce fire danger. I talked to range conservationists who are participating in (and sometimes leading) collaborative efforts with ranchers and environmentalists to ensure that grazing remains part of federal land management. I learned about new tools that ranchers are using to adapt to the impacts of wildfire and drought.

This morning, many of these scientists and managers found themselves fired through the action of a federal “agency” that has never been authorized by Congress, let alone by the U.S. Constitution. They were fired simply because they were vulnerable. Because they were still in their probationary period. Not, as the emails they received suggested, because of performance problems - all of the people I know who were fired had consistently received positive performance reviews. Reviews that they can no longer access from their personnel files.

I’ve spent most of my professional life working on issues related to rangelands. Being a westerner, many of these issues have involved federal agencies like the Forest Service and BLM. I’ve lived through the “Cattle Free by ‘93” movement, President Clinton’s Rangeland Reform ‘94 initiative, home rule movements in Nevada and elsewhere. I’ve seen the federal rangeland and research work force expand and contract through the efforts of six administrations. This time is different. This time it is short-sighted, arbitrary, and mean-spirited.

In my experience, when a new president takes office with a desire to reduce government spending or change policy direction, they’ve done so thoughtfully and strategically. I have not always agreed with this change in direction, but there has always been a deliberative process. Is this program relevant? What will we lose if we cut that agency? What will we gain?

These cuts have not been thoughtful. As one friend remarked this week, they’ve used “a giant meat cleaver to cure a problem that requires a scalpel.” They’ve been implemented with the greatest degree of meanness possible. Federal employees have been told they are underperforming and lazy - living off the public dole - simply because they chose civil service as a career.

Several of my friends have urged me to “wait until the dust settles - don’t jump to conclusions.” I’ve been told, “let the process play out - they’ll learn that some of what they’ve cut is important to their constituents.”

I’m struggling with this advice. In the first 3-plus weeks of this administration, the “dust” seems to be the objective. Chaos is the strategy. Thoughtfulness - and empathy - seem to be in short supply - indeed, we are told that thoughtfulness and empathy are the antithesis of bold action and the “will of the voters.”

I object. I know that President Trump won the last election. I know that some of my friends voted for him. I also know these friends to be thoughtful and empathetic people. I hope they can see how wrong this approach is. I hope they’ll say something.

And so I’ve been thinking about what I can do. What I can say. I know my small voice won’t have much of an impact on national policy, but I think I can make a difference in my chosen profession. And in my community.

In 2002, Sierra College (a community college in Placer County) published Standing Guard: Telling our Stories, which shared the personal stories of Japanese Americans from Placer County (and throughout the West Coast) who were sent to concentration camps after President Franklin Rosevelt signed Executive Order 9066 in 1942. At the invitation of my friend and fellow farmer Howard Nakai, I went to the book release event at Sierra College’s Rocklin campus nearly 23 years ago.

Howard, who took over his family’s fruit orchard near Penryn as a teenager, had been imprisoned at Tulelake. A U.S. citizen at the time of his internment, his story was one of the first-hand accounts of those dark times included in Standing Guard. Sixty years later, Howard spoke at the Sierra College event about what it felt like to be sent away from his community simply because of his ethnicity and the color of his skin. But what stuck with me most about his talk that evening in Rocklin was a story of community. Howard related how his Portuguese neighbor had taken care of his farm during the war. Of how the refrigerator in his house was stocked with cold beer and steak when he finally returned home. Of how it felt to actually have a farm to come home to.

While there were Japanese families who lost everything when they were sent away, Howard’s story was not unique in Placer County (or in other farming communities). Both of my daughters participated in the Future Farmers of America chapter at Placer High School. On the front wall of their classroom, an incredible handmade mosaic of the FFA emblem - made entirely from vegetable seeds - has hung since the late 1940s. This mosaic was made by Japanese families over the course of a winter shortly after World War 2 ended. They presented it to the Placer High agriculture teacher, Frank Bonito, who had cared for their farms during their imprisonment. I’m grateful that current Placer FFA members share that heritage.

Mr. Bonito must have been an amazing person. I’ve also learned that he expanded the Placer High FFA program during his tenure to include students of all ethnic and racial backgrounds. He invited the first female students to join the Placer FFA chapter. Another former Placer High agriculture teacher told me that if you look at the records of State Farmer Degrees and American Farmer Degrees from that period, Mr. Bonito left his mark on an entire generation of Placer County students, farmers, and leaders.

Now, as I read news reports about legal immigrants being detained, of a new internment camp at Guantanamo Bay, I’ve wondered what Howard Nakai and Frank Bonito would be thinking if they were alive today. More importantly, what would they be doing? I wish I could ask them both.

The virtual communities we’ve created through social media have had many benefits. I can talk to (and learn from) shepherds all over the world. I can stay in touch with high school and college friends who I wouldn’t see otherwise. But social media, at least for me, has some critical negatives, too. Social media allows us to amplify the shrillest voices amongst us. We can be rude, disagreeable, and mean without looking each other in the eye. For every upside to a virtual community, at least lately, there seems to be two or three downsides. I am going to step back. I’m going to focus on the communities where I live and work.

I suspect Mr. Bonito and Howard Nakai didn't use the terms “diversity” or “inclusion” to describe their approach to living and working in the Placer County agricultural community. But based on my interactions with Howard, and what I’ve learned about Mr. Bonito, empathy and mutual respect guided their interactions with their neighbors. These are principles I’ve tried to live and work by. These are the principles that I admired and appreciated in my community during Sami’s illness and passing. And these are the principles that it pains me to see abandoned in our current public discourse.

Putting these words down, however, is just the first step for me. Living the principles of empathy and respect for ALL people in my community is far more important than just writing about it. I know that I’m imperfect in this regard, but I keep working at it. Rather than demonize those with whom I disagree, I hope to provide an example of tolerance and acceptance. Of thoughtfulness and empathy. I hope to speak up more than I have in the past, especially on behalf of those who have no voice. I hope to live up to the example of community provided by people like Howard Nakai and Frank Bonito.

Laughing at Myself. And Feeling Isolated.

Late Monday afternoon, I felt like I was coming down with a cold - I had that weird taste in the back of my mouth that seems to come before a sore throat. Tuesday morning, the sore throat had intensified. And I’d developed a lovely cough. By the following evening, I had the chills - even though I’d cranked up the wood stove enough to make it 75 degrees in my living room. I was sick.

Wednesday morning, I awoke to discover that my throat was even more irritated. My cough persisted; I found that some coughs were (as my doctor says) “productive” - I call this “coughing up a lung biscuit.” Regardless of the terminology, I seemed to be producing copious amounts of phlegm.

Sami used to tease me about moaning and groaning when I was the least bit under the weather - she figured I wanted to make sure she knew I wasn’t feeling well. She was probably right! But I can now confirm that I moan and groan even when there’s nobody else in the house to hear me. I suppose this makes me wonder about the tree that falls in an empty forest.

One of the unexpectedly difficult things about moving from Placer County (where Sami and I had lived for 30 years) to Calaveras County is the realization that my support system has changed. In Auburn, I had friends I’d known for the entire 23 years we lived on Joeger Road who I could call if I really needed something. Having worked in rangeland livestock production during that entire time, I also had friends in far-flung places (here and abroad) who would help (who did help during Sami’s illness) when I needed something. But now, all of my friends seem far-flung. I have to keep reminding myself that I’ve only lived in Mountain Ranch since early October - and I’ve travelled a fair bit of that time. I’m starting to meet my neighbors and make friends. But this week, I felt isolated. I felt alone in my house with my dogs and my phlegm.

This sense of isolation, I know, comes with living in a more rural community. Placer County has a population of more than 400,000 people. Calaveras County is barely a tenth that size. I’ve never minded being alone (even as a kid). I’m learning that it’s more difficult to be lonely.

Among the things I’ve realized I miss about my life before Sami’s illness and passing is the sound of a busy house. Of Sami talking on the phone. Of our end-of-the-day recounting of the day’s frustrations, victories, and laughs. Of waking up first to enjoy the quiet time alone in front of the wood stove, knowing Sami would join me shortly. These days, the quietness of waking up alone remains until I leave for work.

I don’t regret moving - I’m glad to be closer to my family and to be living in a smaller community. I’m happy to live in a place where we might get snow (and where, tonight, we’re finally getting rain). As my friend Jean Allender told me had happened for her, being in a new place has allowed me to recall the happy memories of my life with Sami more readily. But there are times when I feel incredibly isolated. Times when I envy my daughters for the people around them - even though I know that they struggle with Sami’s loss as much as I do. But there are also times, like this week, as I was fighting off a cold, when I feel very alone. Like a tree falling in the forest with nobody there to hear it.