Sami's Celebration of Life

Some of you have already seen this and responded - thank you!

Celebration of Life for

Samia Macon 

1967-2023

Saturday, December 23, 2023 - 2pm - 5pm

Sierra Building - Gold Country Fairgrounds - Auburn, CA

We hope you can join us for an afternoon of celebrating Sami's life and service to our

community!

Lamb BBQ and Potluck Dinner

Please bring your favorite side dish, salad, or dessert to share!

Please RSVP to Dan Macon at flyingmulefarm@gmail.com or (530) 305-3270.

If you are unable to attend, we invite you to share a memory or photo of Sami via email.

Finally, we invite you to contribute to the Samia Macon Memorial Scholarship through the Placer High School FFA Chapter. Checks can be made out to Placer High FFA Boosters, 275 Orange Street, Auburn, CA 95603 (Attn: Sami Macon Memorial Scholarship).

Two Months Gone

Two months ago today, in the very early morning, Samia, my wife of 33 years passed away. I know each of the “firsts” that our family experiences going forward (the first holiday season, the first anniversary of her glioblastoma diagnosis, the first birthday) will be difficult; for some reason, this particular milestone is especially difficult for me.

For the last several weeks, I have been reliving the last 10 months. Part of this, I’m sure, is simply my reflective nature; part of it, though, has to do with work. Each year, we are asked to document the research, extension programs, and service activities we’ve accomplished during the previous fiscal year (for UC Cooperative Extension, this runs from October 1 through September 30). I’ve been going back through my calendar to make sure I’ve included all of my work - looking at the timeframe from late January 2023 (when Sami had her first surgery) through mid-August has been full of difficult reminders of how quickly our lives changed. This morning, my brain flashed back to sitting next to Sami in the neuro intensive care unit at Sutter Roseville after she’d come out of her second craniotomy in February. She held my hand all night, eventually rubbing the back of my hand raw with her thumb. It was one of many sleepless nights for me; this morning, I recalled how tired and anxious both of us were - and that we both still had hope that treatment might buy us some time together.

Several weeks ago, my friend Carol Arnold told me, “Sami had to live through this just once; you’re having to live through it again and again.” And I have - I’m not second guessing myself (for the most part), but I am reliving much of the experience. And this has intensified over the last month as the shock of Sami’s passing and the activity associated with its immediate aftermath give way to going back to work. And adjusting to living alone.

Jackie Davis, another friend and rancher, reached out to me this week after an evening cattlemen’s meeting. I’ve known Jackie since I was in college and he was managing Napa Valley Polled Herefords (more than 35 years ago). He asked me how I was doing - I said, “up and down, good days and bad.” He told me that his wife had died in a car accident in 1978 - something I had never known. He said, “Even today, all these years later, I still sometimes wake up really sad about it. It will always be with you.” Today, 2 months after Sami died, I find this oddly comforting - first, that a friend would be so open about how hard this all is; second, to know carrying my grief forward is normal and healthy.

Moving forward in other ways can be challenging at the moment. I feel like I’ve been reasonably successful at accomplishing specific tasks at work and at home. I’ve been able to take care of much of the estate and inheritance issues that arise when anyone passes. I’ve been able to teach workshops, collect data for grazing research projects, and catch up on most of my administrative responsibilities at work. But I don’t feel like I’ve been able to be particularly creative. I don’t feel like I can concentrate for very long. And some of these tasks are rough - today, I sold Sami’s car. I’m happy to check this off my list, but seeing her spot in our driveway empty reinforces my feeling of loss.

Moving forward when others have moved on is also difficult, as is dealing with people and situations that I found stressful even before all of this happened. I certainly don’t expect even my closest friends to think about the fact that today marks two months since Sami died, but sometimes I struggle with everyone else being “back to normal.” And I find that I have little patience for the relationships in my life that have always been challenging - they are especially challenging for me now.

Something else that Jackie Davis told me this week has resonated. I asked him how he got through the initial stages of his loss. He said, “I would wake up and not feel like doing anything. And then one of the cowboys would call and say, ‘Hey - we gotta get these cows bred,’ or something similar. So I just worked. And worked and worked.” I know I’ve found similar solace in activity, but I’m also realizing I’m pushing so hard into the yoke of work, that if the yoke were removed, I’d fall. I find that I’m exhausted by Thursday morning each week. While I know I eventually need to slow down and simply be sad, I find it hard to not be active. Another colleague remarked that I may be overscheduling myself at the moment. He’s probably right!

I’ve been trying to think about the things that bring me joy at the moment, as I’m going through the motions of moving forward. Preparing a meal from meat I raised (or from the deer I harvested) is one of the highlights. Talking to my daughters and my sister and brother-in-law, too. Going for walks with Mae the wonder dog - or even better, watching Mae gather and move the sheep. Hunting was a pleasure - and with a second deer tag in my pocket, the anticipation of more hunting before the end of the month. Milling lumber - and making plans to purchase a real portable sawmill - is enjoyable. Hearing rain on the roof during the night, and waking to a drippy, wet world. Seeing a redtail hawk. And recognizing, finally, that I can be both intensely sad and lonely, and enjoying life, all at the same time. That’s where I seem to be, two months in.

 

What to do about the Sheep

As many of you know, until 9 months ago, this blog was largely focused on all things sheep (with periodic forays in to farming generally and, very occasionally, into baseball). But since late January, I've written just one essay about sheep (Once a Sheepman..., March 27). My normally simple, sheep-centric world was overtaken by Sami's diagnosis of, treatment for, and ultimate passing from glioblastoma. Now, nearly two months after she passed, I'm finally starting to think about what the future holds for Flying Mule Sheep Company.

As I wrote back in March, I'd been considering some changes to the sheep enterprise even before Sami got sick. After buying out my partner Roger when we weaned our lambs in the summer of 2022, the day-to-day responsibilities for managing sheep, feeding livestock guardian dogs, and irrigating our 15 acres of pasture fell to me. On top of my full time "day" job, the sheep chores (at times) made my days very long (especially during the 6 months of irrigation season). Trips to see our daughters (both of whom live out of state) began to take on more importance; Roger graciously offered to help out while we were traveling, but I didn't want to impose.

This spring, I sent about two-thirds of the ewes to a friend in the San Joaquin Valley for lambing. I kept a handful here; lambing is my favorite time of the sheep year, and I didn't want to miss all the fun! Roger helped take care of things during Sami's two stays in the hospital for surgeries. And when we spent three weeks in hospitals in San Francisco in June, Roger also took care of keeping the pasture irrigated. In late June, all of the sheep came home. We weaned and sold our lambs, and I sold more than half of the ewes and all of the ewe lambs to a friend in Humboldt County. This fall, I'm breeding 23 ewes (the fewest since we started in the sheep business in 2005). Next week, we'll have lambs harvested - my total sheep inventory will be 23 ewes, 1 replacement ewe lamb, 2 feeder lambs, and 2 rams. And one livestock guardian dog. And I'm beginning to think it might be more than I want to keep - at least for the next several years.

Since we bought 20 ewes in 2005, I've tried to make this a business. At it's peak, Flying Mule Sheep Company had nearly 300 ewes. We found (not surprisingly, looking back) that this was not big enough to be a viable full-time business - we'd either need to get much larger, or make it a part-time business at a manageable number of sheep. Ultimately, I came to enjoy the part-time nature of what we were doing - I could use the sheep for teaching others about shepherding, and we were large enough to turn a little profit at the end of most years (although I was always afraid to calculate my per hour profit!).

In early August, my friend Roger moved to Texas to be closer to his family - which I totally understand. Without Roger here, however, I felt like I didn't have any backup - I had nobody who could irrigate if I was gone; nobody to move the sheep if they were out of feed.

After I sold sheep this summer, I talked with the wonderful folks who have rented me their irrigated pasture for these last many years. They told me not to worry about paying rent this year, and offered to help feed the dog and watch the sheep when I needed to be out of town. They've been wonderful all along; we've become great friends. But I can't ask them to irrigate. I can't ask them to build electric fence and move the sheep. Those tasks fall to me - and with fewer than 30 sheep, I'm not sure it makes sense to continue as we've been operating.

In the ongoing self-examination I've been doing since Sami's passing, I went back and looked at a journal I started keeping while she was in the hospital in San Francisco. I tried to list the things I missed about being home, and the things I was grateful for during that difficult time. Interestingly, the sheep weren't on the list (which I just realized this week). I missed my dogs, I missed being outdoors in the natural world; sheep chores (and especially daily irrigation) were not among the things I longed to be doing.

I've raised sheep (and irrigated pasture) long enough to know that I'm always burnt out on irrigating by early October. And I always have rancher amnesia once lambing season approaches - I'm always renewed by the arrival of new life, and anxious to start the entire cycle over again. But this year feels different. This year feels like I might make a more significant change.

For starters, I'm thinking I might only keep the number of ewes I can manage at our home place (maybe 5 or 6). During the spring flush of grass growth, I might buy feeder lambs to graze my back pasture while it's green; my only irrigation chores would be the small pastures at the house and my vegetable garden and flowers. But as tired as I am now (from what life has thrown at my family this year, and from the daily slog of animal chores, my real job, and an hour of pasture irrigation most evenings), I'm trying not to make any quick decisions about my future with sheep. For now, I'm simply trying to get through each day. We'll see...

Not Sure

I normally don’t post photos of my successful hunting trips. I hope you’re not offended…. While I’m always grateful for the gift of meat, this year’s hunting success is especially meaningful to me.

I grew up camping and fishing. Every summer, we’d head up Sonora Pass to camp. Fishing was so important that I sometimes skipped school. But I didn’t start hunting until I was middle aged.

Sami grew up mostly in Burbank - in a family that did lots of things together, but not camping, fishing, or hunting. And yet, like I imagine the “LA doll” that John Mellencamp married and brought to his “Small Town,” Sami embraced these parts of living in rural (semi-rural, anyway) Northern California. The year before we were married, I remember taking Sami to fish on the Stanislaus River at Dardanelles - she caught more fish than I did! We camped most summers of our married life.  And when I started hunting, Sami started loving to prepare and eat venison.

Usually, I put in for antelope and elk tags when I buy my hunting license and deer tags - I’ve never been drawn, but I’m hopeful! This year, when I put in for tags in May, things were so uncertain that I only bought deer tags - a tag for our home zone, and a tag for Tuolumne County, where I grew up (and where my sister and brother-in-law still live). At best, I knew I’d need to be here with Sami. At worst, I suspected I’d be alone.

On opening weekend (last week, here in Placer County), my brother-in-law Adrian joined me in hunting a property in Colfax that I’ve been privileged to hunt for the last decade. Last Sunday, he got a buck; I didn’t (which is a story unto itself). Yesterday, after a long day hiking through the rainy woods and not seeing many deer, I got my buck.

Killing an animal to sustain myself and my family is always an emotional experience; direct participation in feeding myself and my family is why I started hunting. I’m always grateful. But this year seems different. This year, filling the woodshed and filling the freezer seem to have more significance. 

In years past, I would always text Sami a photo of my successful hunt. She’d be excited for me, and about the venison meals in our future. This year, I texted our daughters and my extended family. They were equally excited - partly, I think, because my success seemed like a normal autumn activity. Or maybe that’s just my perspective.

I’ve come to enjoy hunting not only for the meat in my freezer (and, if I’m honest, the thrill and skill involved in a successful hunt); I also enjoy hunting for the excuse to be outdoors, in an environment I love. I love being quiet and attentive to everything around me - yesterday, I saw a great horned owl, a red-shouldered hawk, an enormous flock of Sandhill Cranes headed south, and exactly seven deer. Including the buck I killed. This morning, as I quartered the buck in preparation for cutting and wrapping my winter meat, I experienced an odd mix of sadness and contentment. I’m not sure why, but getting a buck this year seemed especially important to me - perhaps because it felt like “normal”; perhaps because I knew how happy Sami would have been. Regardless, I will think of Sami every time I make a meal from this buck.