Home Alone

Periodically, I go back through my writing from the last three years. I marvel at how easy the life that was reflected in my blog posts before late January 2023 appears to me today. I was worried about things like lambing season and drought (which seemed monumental at the time, but seem trivial now). I relive bits of what our family went through during Sami’s illness. I transport myself back to the profound sadness of the immediate aftermath of her passing, to the doubt I experienced in deciding to move, to the adjustment of figuring out this new chapter in my life. But this evening, I re-read a blog post titled Little Reminders, written less than a month after Sami died. I wrote that I was “adjusting to being alone at home for the first time in 34 years.” And I realized that the statement was incorrect. Until Sami died, I’d never been truly “alone” in the place I called home. In my life. Until now.

In the four-plus years I went to college at UC Davis, I always had at least one roommate. I was fortunate to count all of my roommates as friends (and most of them have remained in contact). Upon graduation, I moved back to Sonora to work for my family’s auction business - and moved into an apartment I’d rented with Sami (we were engaged by this time). After we were married, Sami started vet school, and we lived in a series of rentals in Plymouth, Woodland, and finally Dixon. In her last year of school, we purchased a home in Penryn. Seven years later, we bought our place in Auburn.

I don’t mean to suggest that Sami and I were together 24/7. She had her own business, life, interests, and friends. As did I. I traveled for work, and I took care of the household chores on my own when she traveled. But we always checked in even when we were apart. We usually shared the little triumphs and frustrations of daily life, even when we were sleeping in separate places. To be honest, those frustrations were occasionally with each other!

As I write this tonight, I’m sitting on the back deck of MY “new” home (I’ve been here a year) in Calaveras County. MY “new” dog, Ky, is acting goofy, while OUR old dog, Mae, is looking at her with a mix of amusement and disgust. I just fed OUR mules. Two of the four remaining sheep were born before Sami died - in that sense, they’re OURS, as is Bodie the livestock guardian dog. But the two feeder lambs I bought last spring are MINE.

I realized tonight that my decision to move, to sell OUR home in Auburn, and to move to a new place closer to my parents, was the first significant decision I’ve made on my own since I decided where to go to college. The college decision, and the decision to move last year, were made after consultation with family and friends. But ultimately, both were my decisions. I hadn’t considered the weight of this until tonight. I realize that I miss sharing the responsibility for - and consequences of - major life choices.

That said, I have retained some of the habits that our joint decision-making helped me build. Sami was great about saying, “Let’s sleep on it,” and so I’ve tried to do that. Sami was also good about not second guessing once a decision was made. This is a work in progress for me.

Living alone has had practical implications, as well. I’ve had to figure out how to cook for one. I hate to waste food, and I have tried to avoid processed foods - and I enjoy cooking generally. But trying to figure out how to cook healthy meals with leftovers that don’t go bad in the fridge has been challenging. In Auburn, I’d also try to order out every week or two; these options are limited in Mountain Ranch! 

I’ve also had to figure out how to do things that used to take more than one pair of hands - building my woodshed was a good example. I had lots of help for the critical parts of this project, but I also figured out how to get posts plumb and beams level by myself. I became a better (though definitely still amateur) carpenter in the process.

I’m fortunate to live a life that gives me time outdoors doing physical work. My extension research and teaching activities often give me the opportunity to work outside, sometimes by myself. Similarly, my lifestyle and my hobbies largely require outdoor activities - gardening, hunting, fishing and hiking. Wood cutting, reducing the fuel-load on my property, managing the sheep. Running my sawmill. I find myself thinking about whether I need to let someone know where I’ll be and what I’ll be doing. My daughters and my sister are probably tired of getting text messages that say, “Hey - I’m headed up Highway 4 to cut firewood today,” or “I’m going to get on the roof to clean the gutters and blow off the pine needles.” Or, “I’ll be collecting forage samples in a place without cell service today - I’ll text you when I’m home.” But as I get older, I feel like I need to let somebody know if I’m doing something that is potentially dangerous. And I appreciate knowing that someone is glad when they know I’m home safe and sound.

My realization this week that the last 24 months have represented my first experience at living alone hasn’t made me sad, necessarily. The feeling of observing my life and my thought process from outside myself isn’t new, either. I find it interesting to think about my emotions, my fatigue, and my need for introspection in light of this recognition that I’ve never truly lived alone. So I think I'll go inside, heat up a can of lentil soup and slice some home grown tomatoes, and get ready for bed!

My new woodshed!