My Summer Check-in

My little abode - July 20, 2026

There must be something about July for me. I’ve realized over the last week or so that I seem to need to check in with myself about this time of year. Perhaps the heat of mid-summer and long daylight hours make me reflective. More likely, July leads up to some of the most difficult anniversaries for me - Sami and I would have been married 36 years on August 4. Nine days later, I’ll pass the third anniversary of her death. My last two July check-ins (Checking in with Myself in 2024,  Checking in Again in 2025) have been somewhat disorganized (at least looking back on them now); I suspect this entry will be an equally chaotic collection of the thoughts and emotions tumbling around in my head over these last several weeks. Perhaps organizing these words into a blog post will help me organize my thoughts a bit more coherently. We’ll see….

As I re-read my last to check-in entries, I realize that a common thread is exhaustion. Whether it’s the heat, the work, the emotional stress of the approaching anniversaries - or (mostly likely) a combination of all of these, I seem to feel drained during the last half of July.

Sometimes my exhaustion feels like simple laziness. I wonder if, at 59, my energy is permanently diminished (the answer is probably yes!). I think about the things that I should be doing around my place, or in my job, and wonder if I’m just lethargic. Other days, I look around at what I’ve accomplished in setting up my new home, at what I’ve done in my professional life in the last year, and I think, “I have every right to be tired - I’ve been really damn busy!” In some ways, I think I’m still adjusting to managing a household on my own. To caring for a piece of land that, while still very small, is twice the size of the property Sami and I managed together in Auburn. Some days, I can cut myself some slack. Some days I feel like a slacker.

While I am very grateful to have been able to move closer to family to help care for my parents, I’ve also realized over these last few weeks that there has been no let-up in the anxiety and stress that comes with being a caregiver. Although I’m much closer now than I was in Auburn, most of the work of caring for my parents has fallen to my sister. That said, the sense of “what crises will I need to manage today?” has been unrelenting since we learned of Sami’s cancer in January 2023. I have come to think of it as baseline stress - it’s always there.

I suspect anyone who loses a life partner naturally thinks about their own mortality. I think about missing important milestones in the lives of our daughters. About failing to accomplish the things I still hope to accomplish - or experience the things and places I still hope to experience. Since Sami’s illness, I’ve tried to take my own health more seriously. I walk (or jog - very slowly) most days. I take the stairs instead of the elevator. I try to do something outside every day. I’ve tried to be more conscious about my diet - my meals are very simple, but mostly made from scratch. And this year, I finally relented and took my doctor’s advice about taking cholesterol medication. I’m so grateful to have been able to celebrate Emma’s graduation from college and Lara’s marriage to Micah; I hope I get to celebrate many more milestones in their lives! And maybe a few milestones in my own life!

I have begun to appreciate that my life’s experience in animal agriculture has given me, perhaps, a rare perspective on the biological realities of life and death. As a friend told me several years ago, raising livestock - knowing that some of the animals in our care will die no matter what we do - prepares our hearts for harder things. This is not meant to trivialize death. Further, death is not the opposite of health. Having directly participated in both bringing new life into the world and in providing the release of death when it was humanely necessary, I feel like my life’s work in raising sheep prepared me for those final moments with Sami, holding her hand as she took her last breath. And I’ve been thinking about that a great deal in these last few weeks.

Life and death happen all around us. Every day. In the last 12 months, I’ve celebrated birth, and I’ve mourned loss (as each of us has). I’ve realized that I’m not frightened by death itself, but by the process of dying.

That’s enough introspection on my own mortality, I suppose…

As our wedding anniversary approaches, and after celebrating Lara and Micah’s beautiful wedding in May, I’ve also been pondering the nature of wedding vows. Of the meaning of the word “forever.” I was fortunate to be married to Sami for her entire adult life. I have realized this summer that I was her “forever.” My forever has yet to be defined. I’ve also realized that I am now the sole repository of memories of those years when our family was just Sami and me. I’ve been thinking about the things we did together - both before and after we were married - that only we knew about. Some of these memories will remain private; some are things that I have shared - or will share - with our girls. But I’ve realized that these memories will only reflect my perspective - how I wish I could ask Sami what she remembers about that picnic on Putah Creek, or the camping trip at Ice House Reservoir (or a hundred other things I remember).

Several months ago, I asked a new acquaintance what was good or enjoyable about being 59. She answered that she felt like she was at a point where she was free to decide what SHE wanted to do - without as much worry about obligations or expectations. Her answer made me think about my own perspective on reaching this age. I feel like I am finally beginning to understand that change takes time - that my own impatience doesn’t necessarily bring about change more quickly. Paradoxically, I suppose, I understand that time is a necessary catalyst for change, even though I have less time left. I find that I’m more comfortable letting change happen on its own timeline. I’ve also - finally - begun to trust my intuition. If something - or someone - seems off to me, it - or they - probably are. If I feel as though I can trust someone, or if I sense some degree of compatibility or friendship - I find that my instincts are usually right. For me, at least, this has not always been the case - for most of my life I have been a master at second guessing myself.

Finally, I read a piece of clickbait recently about why some Finnish men seem to have lower rates of dementia. The article, which turned out to be based on legitimate research, found that men who completed something with their hands most days - woodworking or cooking from scratch, for example - tended to have significantly lower rates of dementia. I immediately thought back to my experience in high school shop classes. While I pursued an academic-focused education and career, I carried the lessons from teachers like Mr. Sterni, Mr. Clyde, Mr. Smith, and Mr. Buetler into my adult life. I’m not much of a mechanic (sorry Mr. Smith!), but I get so much satisfaction from working with my hands. From transforming a board into something useful - or now, from transforming a tree into a board with my portable sawmill. And that sense of cyclical completion, I realize now, is what I have so loved about raising sheep - the tactile and creative relationship with the world around me.

These blog posts are largely letters to myself - but I can’t tell you how much it means to me that my friends read them, too. In that regard, they are letters to you, as well. I appreciate your feedback, your friendship, and your generosity. I don’t know if the quality of my writing is sufficient for a longer work, but I take great satisfaction from the act of creating - and from your responses. Thank you.