Who Am I Now?!

Thirty-six years ago this month, my identity changed. Or evolved maybe. In addition to being Dan Macon, I became “Samia’s boyfriend.” Or maybe “significant other” is more appropriate. At some point, I became “Samia’s fiancé.” On August 4, 1990, I became “Samia’s husband.”

”Samia’s husband” lasted for 33+ years (actually, I still think of myself as “Samia’s husband) - in 1997, I added “Lara’s dad,” and in 2003, “Emma’s dad.” As an aside, I can’t describe how amazing it is to be at a professional society meeting and have someone say, “Hey, you’re Lara’s dad!” or “You’re Emma’s dad! - we’re all members of the Society for Range Management! 

After we said “I do,” I was still “Dan Macon” - with my own work and my own friendships, But as I said, from August 4, 1990, forward, part (a big part) of my identity was that I was Sami’s husband. And part of her identity was, “Dan’s wife.”

Occasionally, we’d get mail addressed to “Dr. and Mr. Macon,” (Sami was a large animal veterinarian) - which we both got a kick out of. For many years, a former employer sent fundraising solicitations to Mr. Dan and Mr. Sam Macon (which we didn’t find as humorous). But for 36 years, we maintained both our individual identities, as well as our joint identities.

Today, a little over 15 months since Sami passed away, I’m still trying to figure out who I’ll be going forward. I know I’m not who I have been. Widower is not a term I’d ever thought of applying to myself.

Grief seems to have clarifying properties. I don’t mean that it frees the mind from confusion, or that it makes anything clear of ambiguity - at least for me. I think grief is more like clarifying butter - it separates solid matter from liquid. Or maybe grief is like refining oil or purifying a precious metal. In any case, grief, even with all of the confusion and brain fog it has induced in me, also seems to have pared down my life into its essential elements.

I have come to think of my relationship with Sami as similar to the relationship between a stream and its bank (in our case, I’m not sure who was the water, and who was the earth). The stream shapes the bank, and the bank guides the stream. One of those elements is gone now. And I’m not sure if I’m water running without direction (it feels that way some days) or a sad stream bank bereft of its life-giving water (which also describes my life at times). I do feel like part of my search for who I am now is paying attention to where my life is flowing. And to what is guiding my direction.

Last week, I participated in a webinar organized by UCSF for caregivers. One of the things I’ve struggled with since Sami’s death is that I can’t call myself a caregiver any more (or at least it seems that way to me). But the webinar speaker, a Canadian woman named Laura Dill (who incredibly lost both parents and an in-law to glioblastoma) suggested that we’re all still caretakers - of our loved ones’ legacies.

Part of Sami’s legacy is the strong, intelligent, funny daughters (young women!) that we raised. In my last blog post, I remarked that I had to do doubletakes during my time with Lara and Emma in Idaho. Their expressions, their mannerisms, their appearance - their senses of humor - all reminded me of Sami. I am proud beyond expression to be their dad; Sami would be (is!) proud of who they are today. Part of my purpose now, then, is to be here for the important milestones in their lives. To the extent I can control how long I get to stick around.

Part of Sami’s legacy is the community where we spent our lives together. She gave so much back - to 4-H, to youth soccer, to the Future Farmers of America program at Placer High School. To the livestock (and especially the horse) communities. While I’ve moved away from that community, I’ll always be part of it (and it will be part of me). In a small way, the gifts that our friends and family gave to the Placer FFA scholarship program after Sami passed is an opportunity to continue her legacy of community support. I’m looking for ways to build this legacy in perpetuity.

After we began to grasp the full magnitude of Sami’s glioblastoma diagnosis in the spring of 2023, Sami told me that when she died, she hoped her experience (and her remains) would help doctors understand more about the disease. While we’d hoped to make a direct contribution to glioblastoma research, we were only able to provide Sami’s remains to the general donation program supporting the UCSF medical school. I feel like part of caring for Sami’s legacy will involve supporting direct research into the treatment of this horrible cancer. I’m not sure what that looks like yet.

And finally, I think part of Sami’s legacy is the grief I’ve experienced since her diagnosis - and especially since her passing. Shortly after Sami’s first craniotomy, she asked me to write a blog post about what was happening. Looking back, this felt like Sami was acknowledging my role in our relationship - the role of communicator. She trusted me to share what our family was experiencing with our community. At the time, I felt like she complimented my writing ability.

I don’t know that I’ve been particularly eloquent, but I do think that I’ve been given the gift of vulnerability. In my writing, I’ve tried to be open and honest about my grief. Selfishly, my writing has allowed me to get some of these emotions “out” - out into the world, out of my system. I hope that my openness about our experience has helped others cope with their own grief in some small way. I’ve long thought about writing a book, but have always held back because I didn’t feel like I’d experienced enough adversity. Now that I have the experience, I struggle with how to write a happy (or at least a positive ending). We’ll see….

In the meantime, I’m grateful my self-identity still includes “dad,” “brother,” and “son.” I’m also grateful that my identity is still “Sami’s husband.” Perhaps our legacy together is that we were a stream and streambank - we shaped each other; we guided each other.

Traveling Alone

I’ve traveled by myself, in the literal sense, since I moved away to go to school when I was 18. Usually, my two-and-a-half hour drive home from UC Davis (for holidays, for summer break - for laundry!) was a solo affair. After graduation - and after marrying Sami and embarking on a career in 1990 - I often traveled alone for work (sometimes driving, sometimes flying - occasionally taking the train). But the common denominator in these trips was the return home - someone (a roommate, my friends - Sami) was always there to greet me. In many ways, the return trip was what I most enjoyed about travel - coming home to a warm house. And a warm embrace.

As I’ve traveled since Sami’s death, I’ve realized that there’s a figurative definition of traveling alone, too. The physical act of going from one place to another (for work, or more enjoyably, to see my daughters) is still solitary. The act of living - and of grieving, it seems - is also solitary. I find myself thinking, “Sami would get a kick out of this - I should call her.” I find myself envious of those who return home to partners. I find myself feeling sorry for myself, if I’m honest.

I‘ve just returned home from a combination work and personal trip. Last Wednesday, I drove to Lakeport to give a talk about protecting livestock from predators. After my talk, I continued on to Yreka, where I had dinner with one of my favorite colleagues. The next morning, I left around 7am and drove north - with no particular destination. I stopped several times - once to walk through the Collier Logging Museum north of Klamath Falls, OR, and once to check out the amazing bridges over the Crooked River north of Bend, OR. I found a hotel room in Kennewick, WA, and had birrea de borrego at a little Mexican restaurant for dinner. Alone. And I found myself thinking that I’d have called Sami to tell her I found some great lamb for dinner! I also realized that I would never have traveled this aimlessly with Sami - she was even more of a planner than I typically am!

On Friday, I left early, headed for Spokane (where Lara would arrive by plane later that morning). I killed some time (and some money) stopping in at the White’s Boots store. After I picked up Lara, we stocked up on snacks (and Lara’s favorite tea) at Trader Joe’s, and then made our way south towards Moscow, ID. We stopped for a great lunch (and a brief shopping trip) in the little town of Palouse, WA. And we stopped for fuel at a funky gas station in Garfield, WA (just before I ran out of gas!). Once we got to Moscow, we joined Emma at the University of Idaho Logging Sports Arena, where she was helping prepare for that weekend’s competition.

We had a wonderful visit. I was struck (again) by how much of their mom I see in both of our daughters. I found myself doing a double take when Emma or Lara would say something that Sami would have said, or when they laughed at one of our family’s inside jokes.

I also kept up with my journaling during the trip:

”In some ways, I feel like the fact that I “adulted” on my own (mostly) in the year-plus since Sami died, is an accomplishment. I made the bed every day. I fed myself (mostly healthily). I kept up with the laundry. I showed up for work (physically, and usually mentally). I paid the bills.

”Sometimes, the solitude has been difficult. I miss companionship. I miss Sami’s touch. I seem to go through stretches when the only memories I can summon of Sami are from the end of her illness.”

Seeing both girls together was wonderful. Seeing them laugh together - sometimes about their dorky father - was amazing. Seeing them support one another was incredible. Seeing them together helped me refocus my memories of their mom.

On my trip, I listened to several episodes of a podcast about grief (Anderson Cooper’s “All There Is”) - and heard (again) the lyrics of Paul Simon’s “Graceland.”

”Losing love is like a window in your heart.

”Everybody sees you’re blown apart.

”Everybody sees the wind blow.”

A break-up, obviously, is nothing like losing your life partner, but the words resonated. I do feel like everyone - even complete strangers - can tell I’m not quite right. Or maybe that’s wishful thinking. Maybe I wish complete strangers could tell that I’m not the same person I was two years ago.

On Sunday, Sami would have turned 57. She would have complained about getting older - which always kind of annoyed me. On Sunday, I wished she’d had that opportunity. That evening, I wrote:

”I’m really glad I drove this time. I’m glad to be returning home gradually.”

The next day, though, was rough. Leaving the girls has always been hard (even before Sami’s passing); leaving them both, with the prospect of returning to an empty house, and without Sami in the passenger seat, was incredibly difficult. I realized that driving north (towards our visit) was far easier. Driving south alone was daunting - I only made it about 5 hours that first day (to Ontario, OR). I remembered that I’d be coming home to an empty house. I started doubting my decision to move - I had no real friends to return to in Mountain Ranch. I worried about clinging to the connections I did have - to my sister and her husband; to my work colleagues.

That said, I also began to appreciate the beauty of the western Idaho landscape. The colors of the trees. The weather. The sky.

On the way north, I found the memories of previous trips Sami and I had taken - of the places we’d stopped and the conversations we’d had - to be enjoyable. On the first day headed home, these memories made me sad. I remembered - in graphic detail - the places we’d stopped on our way home from sharing Thanksgiving with Emma in November 2022. They reminded me that Sami won’t get to experience new memories - that she won’t see Emma graduate in May. Or see Lara start her ceramics business (Red Mule Pottery).

But Tuesday was a new day. I left Ontario before sunrise, and made it to Jordan Valley, OR as the sun was rising over the basin and range country. Something about driving through the sagebrush sea from Jordan Valley to Winnemucca, NV, calmed my soul. The sky was amazing, and the snow that had fallen on the higher peaks the day before made these little mountain ranges look like islands. I stopped for lunch at a great little deli in Carson City (Villa Basque Cafe), and picked up sheep’s milk cheese and Basque chorizo for future meals. I drove over Carson Pass (which, even with the snow, was far more enjoyable than crossing the Sierra over Interstate 80). I got home with daylight left. The house was empty, but I felt better than I had the evening before.

Over the course of my travels, I also realized that this was my first solo road (driving) trip since Sami’s passing. I realized the physical limitations of taking such a long trip - nobody could spell me in the driver’s seat when I got tired. In many ways, this felt like an important step - I proved to myself that I could travel alone. Maybe that’s part of “adulting” too.

Tonight, I’m thinking about the nature of being human - and of grieving. Grieving is, perhaps, the most universal of human emotions. We will ALL lose someone or something, for which we will grieve. Grieving, then, gives us community - or maybe communion, with the rest of humanity. But grieving is also intensely personal. My journey through grief (at the loss of my wife) is inherently different than my daughters’ journey (at the loss of their mother). Grief, I think, requires us to travel alone. But sharing our grief enables our community to join us. Maybe that’s what I learned on this trip.

Warming my Rivets

I won’t get this quote quite right, but one of my favorite authors, Ivan Doig, wrote that a wood stove is the only kind of heat that warms the rivets of your Levi’s. Wendell Berry, my other favorite writer, said he’d rather know how to build a fire than operate a thermostat (I didn’t get that quote right, either, I’m sure). Despite my poor recall, I’ve always subscribed to both concepts. I’ve always preferred wood heat.

The first home that Sami and I bought in Penryn, California, had a wood stove - I don’t remember which brand. I do remember cutting firewood. We cut valley oak at our friend’s ranch in Clements. We cut (and even burned!) foothill gray pine (which I split by hand! I was much younger and stronger 30 years ago). I don’t think we ever used the heater in that house.

When we moved to Auburn in 2001, one of the drawbacks to the home we purchased was the propane “wood stove” the sellers had installed. We promptly bought a Pacific Energy wood stove, and started cutting firewood (we moved into the house in March - by the next fall, we had cut enough wood for the winter). I think the last time we used the natural gas furnace was in 2003 or 2004.

Relying on wood heat had its drawbacks (especially in a home as poorly insulated as our Auburn place). If we traveled for more than 2 or 3 days from December through February, the temperature inside our home was similar to the temperature outside! We’d come home from a trip and find the house frigid - we often slept in the living room in front of the wood stove that first night after returning home!

I grew up with wood heat - and with the process of getting enough firewood to make it through the winter. Sami did not, but she embraced it! We cut and stacked wood together throughout our marriage; Sami learned how to split kindling, start a fire, and keep it going. When we started raising sheep, Sami would put her bummer lambs under the wood stove, wrapped in a warm towel. She was convinced (as was I) that wood heat was the best way to revive a frigid lamb!

When Sami was diagnosed with glioblastoma in the winter of 2023, keeping the house warm became my sole responsibility. As did preparing for the winter of 2024. Several friends knew we heated with wood, and they brought oak and Douglas fir for us to burn. Others had oak that was already cut and split - we just had to haul it home. Mostly I did this alone, but Sami went with me several times while she was undergoing chemo- and radiation-therapy in the spring of 2023.

Last winter, after Sami passed, I continued to heat with wood. Thanks to the generosity of our friends, I had plenty. When I decided to move south to be closer to family - and to help care for my mom - I also decided to leave the firewood I had left in Auburn. Buy it (or cut it) where you burn it, as the experts say - I didn’t want to transport any possible pests to my new place in Calaveras County.

The place I purchased near Mountain Ranch, California, checked many boxes! It had conifers (ponderosa pines and incense cedars). It had a covered porch. It was much lighter than our home in Auburn. But it didn’t have a wood stove! It does now - I bought a Lopi Endeavor and had it installed by the great folks at Hibernation Stoves in Arnold.

But in addition to the lack of a wood stove, my new place also didn’t have firewood. I figured in this first year, I’d rely more on the propane furnace, even though I had the stove installed. I figured I wouldn’t have enough firewood to see me through the winter.

Was I ever wrong! My main concern was having enough wood to heat the house until I could process all of the down oak on my 6 acres - probably 3-4 cords. My family came to my rescue!

Last weekend, my sister and brother-in-law cut tamarack pine. This weekend, I picked up a load of oak at my sister’s. And we cut a load of cedar on Ebbetts Pass. I have enough softwood to get me through the year, and enough oak to get me through until I can cut firewood here. Tonight, I built my first fire in my new stove!

Wood heat, for me, means more than simply heating the rivets on my jeans, though. Wood heat means self-sufficiency. Wood heat means economy - I’d rather run a chainsaw and a wood splitter than pay a utility for electricity or propane.

But wood heat, after losing Sami, also means connection. As I lit the fire in my new stove this evening, I thought of Sami. Today, when we found the first bunch of cedar logs, a red tail hawk circled overhead. Sami, I think, was watching. And she approved.

Grief, Trauma, and Memory

As I’ve written previously, living through Sami’s illness and death has changed the way I look at health care. I find that driving by a hospital triggers memories of what we went through in 2023. Even trips to the vet can do this to me - this spring, Mae had three throat surgeries and Ky spent the night in the ICU at UC Davis - both experiences brought back memories of our visits to the emergency room and Sami's long stay at UCSF. Of unsuccessful surgeries and unanswered questions. I’ve been to my own primary care physician several times since Sami passed. Both times, my initial blood pressure when I got to the appointment was much higher than normal. Experiencing trauma, at least for me, has had lasting psychological and physiological effects.

A hospice counselor I’ve been seeing over the last several months told me recently, “grief needs community, but trauma is often private.” I realized that my writing is largely how I’ve been sharing my grief with my community. Talking about grief can seem awkward to me; writing about it has been hugely therapeutic. 

But I find that I really haven’t shared much about the trauma we experienced. Writing about the trauma seems like maybe it’s oversharing. However, I find that my memories of the traumatic things we experienced often crowd out the happier memories - even those from after Sami’s diagnosis. And certainly my memories of this trauma colors my current interactions with the health care system.

And so at the risk of oversharing, I feel like I need to name at least some of these traumatic events. The days of uncertainty in late January when we knew something was wrong but didn’t know what it was. The conversation with the ER doctor in Auburn who told us the CT scan showed some sort of mass on Sami’s brain. The first craniotomy. The visit with a second neurosurgeon two weeks later who said the tumor seemed to have grown back already. The frustrating and frightening wait for a second craniotomy. Sami’s first mild seizure in April. Her second, and far more severe, seizure in May, which left her unable to walk within a week. The two weeks we spent at UCSF waiting for answers and hope, followed by the week we spent at acute rehab at St. Francis Memorial, with (as it turned out) little progress. The trip back to UCSF for an MRI when Sami couldn't hold still for the imaging - and when we learned that she had two new lesions in different parts of her brain. Coming home from the grocery store in late July to find an ambulance and fire truck in the driveway. Hearing the ER doctor in Roseville later that evening say, “It’s time for hospice.” The last two weeks of rapid decline (and all of the physical and mental “shutting down” that came with it). And the overall trauma of seeing my wife, who had run a half marathon in November and who was training for another when the symptoms appeared in January, unable to walk by June. Of realizing she wouldn’t practice veterinary medicine or ride her mule again. Of watching her physical remains leave the house early in the morning of August 13, 2023. Please know that I'm not asking for sympathy; rather, I feel like I need to get the words - and memories - out of my head.

Today, I find that when I see someone using a walker or a wheelchair, I have far greater empathy than I used to. I think back to what that must have felt like to Sami to be unable to walk, and to how it felt to me to try to help her navigate a world built for people who could. And I feel deep sadness. I realize that all loss involves trauma, and I’m realizing that the trauma we experienced will always be with me. Perhaps in sharing it, I can move forward in spite of it. Or with it. I’m finally finding that my memories of the happy times I shared with Sami are starting to come back into focus. A bit.

Moving to a new home has been both difficult and helpful in coping with these feelings. Leaving the home where we raised our family behind was hard; living in a new space where I’m not confronted by physical and visual reminders of the trauma has been helpful. I find that the happy memories of our lives together are a bit easier to access today than they were even a month ago, partly because I don’t wake up every morning in the same bedroom where Sami passed away. The bedroom wasn’t different in its appearance, but its meaning changed profoundly.

These last several weeks have been filled with goodbyes - to old friends, to colleagues, to the places I’ve enjoyed in Auburn. I’ve found them to be bittersweet - a combination of happy memories and both excitement and sorrow about the changes in my life that are pulling (pushing?) me in a new direction. And on top of these emotions, I miss being able to share all of this with Sami. As my move to a new job and a new community become more real, so does my sense of being alone, of missing someone who knew me well enough to hear my silences as well as my words. I find once again that being with others doesn’t cure the feeling of loneliness - I guess in some ways I sometimes want to be alone if I can’t be with Sami. At least on some days. 

Several weeks ago, a close friend asked me how I was doing with the move, with work, and with life in general. I finally felt like I could open up a bit - and I was as honest as I could be about the ups and downs. She said, “You look tired and pale to me.” I’ve thought about our conversation frequently in the ensuing weeks, and I realized that I’m lucky to have a friend who can see through the facade of “I’m ok” that I suppose I’ve tried to show to the world. Mostly, I am ok, but being ok takes an enormous amount of energy. I am sensing that my body and my mind are telling me I need to slow down a bit after this move is final. I need to also give myself space to be “not ok.” 

Elliptical Orbits

While I’ve moved most of my life to Calaveras County, my job is still in Placer County until the end of September. Consequently, I’ve been living in both communities; I spent last week working in San Andreas or from home during the day, and unpacking my belongings in the evenings. This week (and for most of the next three weeks), I’ll be working in Auburn during much of the week, and driving home on the weekends. And during these last three weeks in Placer County, I’ll be saying goodbyes. Sami and I moved to Placer County in 1994, so many of these goodbyes are to friends I’ve known for a long time.

I have felt relieved since the stress of moving ended after the third week of August. Sure, I still have some ranch equipment to move, and I still have much to unpack, put away, and set up at my new place. I still need to move my sheep and our mules. But the emotional strain of saying goodbye to the home where we’d raised our children - and where Sami died - was alleviated when I could no longer call our Joeger Road place home. That said, as I drove to my last Placer County Agricultural Commission meeting last night, I realized these human goodbyes would be difficult, too.

This morning, I visited the ranch of my friends David and Barbara Gallino, between Auburn and Grass Valley. David reminded me that we’d met 36 years ago, when I was a junior at UC Davis and an intern at the California Cattlemen’s Association - and when David was just starting to run cows on a Tahoe National Forest grazing permit. We talked about some of the ranchers we’ve both known over the years - both here in Placer and Nevada Counties, and in my “new” community in Calaveras County. We talked about what it was like growing up on a dairy in Grass Valley, about how he and Barbara bought their ranch in the late 1970s. In short, we had a great visit.

Driving back to the office, I thought about the nature of friendship. I’ve always thought of my community as a collection of overlapping circles of friendship. But I realized this morning that perhaps my geometric understanding of friendship is not quite right. Friendships, I think, are more like the elliptical orbits of comets. Since I met David and Barbara in 1988, I would often go months, if not years, without seeing them or even talking to them. But every time the orbit of my life (or theirs) would loop us back into contact, we’d pick up where we left off. We always had something to talk about - and to laugh about - like we did this morning.

Reflecting further on what it means to be leaving this community, I realized that I have reconnected with other friends during and after Sami’s illness. I’ve had dinner with college and high school friends who I hadn’t seen in decades. I’ve visited my friends in Humboldt County several times, and they’ve stayed with me. I’ve stopped in to see friends that I knew in Calaveras County before Sami and I had kids. Friends of Sami’s have reached out and included me in their orbits, as well. And new acquaintances whose orbits have brought them into similar contact with tragedy and grief have intersected my trajectory.

I have been fortunate to be part of a number of overlapping ranching communities during the course of my life. I grew up in a community where ranching and logging were highly visible - on the rangelands and forests surrounding Sonora; on Washington Street on Saturday mornings. My early career with the California Cattlemen’s Association opened new communities (and friendships), as did my ongoing volunteer experience with the California Wool Growers Association. As I’ve grown older, the length of my elliptical orbit has increased, as has the number of friends. My “community” seems galactic in scale sometimes. I’m a fortunate man.

Ranching communities - like most communities I suppose - rely on shared stories as a way to laugh at themselves, as a way to remind each other about what the community values, and (as I’ve learned in the last 18 months) as a way to embrace those who may be struggling. I have realized over these months that my family was the topic of conversation and concern within the many communities we’ve been part of - in many cases, these conversations happened (at least initially) without our knowledge. I find this to be incredibly humbling - that people would think about us, even in our absence. And these shared stories often get bounced around - I realized today that David and Barbara had heard about a high country trip I’d made with Emma five years ago from someone else. In sharing that they’d heard the story, they also shared that it was important to their understanding of our place, and the values we all put on our connections to place and to people.

So while I continue to feel somewhat bittersweet about leaving this particular community, I realized today that communities are places that we touch during our individual orbits. I realized that the friends that are important to me will still be a part of my journey, and I part of theirs. I realized that my true friends are those people with whom I can pick up where we left off - no matter how long ago that was. And that my true friends have held me in their thoughts and hearts all along.

The New Place

I’m writing this on August 31, 2024 - and I’m officially a resident of Calaveras County. Mountain Ranch, to be more specific. I have another month of splitting time between my new home and my old job (in Auburn); on October 1, I’ll be working and living down here. And I’m finding that I’m finally catching my breath. A bit.

Placer County’s population is around 429,000 people at the moment - the county has grown by 5.7% since 2020, and has 305 people per square mile. As I’ve written previously, Placer County more than doubled in population since we moved there in 1994. Calaveras County, by contrast, has a bit more than 46,000 residents. While it is also growing here (2.7% since 2020), the population density is just 46 people per square mile.

Statistics aside, my new place is much quieter than our old home. I’m about 14 miles from CA-49 (compared with less than one mile in Auburn). I have more space around me (I’m on 6 acres here, and all of the properties around me are of similar size). Fewer people means less traffic - far less traffic! I can see more stars at night!

When I was in college, a friend from Calaveras County joked that they “didn’t have any traffic lights, but they had the colors picked out!” Nearly 35 years later, I think Calaveras County now has 2 traffic lights (at least that I’ve seen - one in Angels Camp and one in Murphys). Compared to CA-49 in Auburn, this is definitely more my style!

The house itself is larger than our old place; larger than I need, if I’m honest. It boasts three bedrooms and bathrooms. I’m working on getting a wood stove installed in the next month or two, but it also has central air and heat. And a great covered deck! But the house isn’t what sold me on the property (at least not entirely). The 6 acres is mostly grassland (including some native grasses, important to a grass geek like me). And there are conifers! Ponderosa pines and incense cedars, not to mention black oaks, white oaks, and elderberries. I’m looking forward to having my sheep and mules here - I think they’ll like it too!

“Our old place.” “My place.” I guess this is the gist of what I’m trying to describe. Sami would have liked this place, I think - she’d have liked the bigger acreage, the wood floors, the light in the house. But we’d have never moved here. We’d have stayed in Auburn until both of us retired, I think - and then probably tried to move somewhere closer to both Lara and Emma. I’m trying to wrap my head around this.

Early on, I’m finding that the change in my physical space has helped me focus on the good memories of my life with Sami. The physical reminders of her illness and passing (all associated with “our old place”) are still present, but without the daily visual (and visceral) reminders, I find myself recalling happier times. I hope this continues. I’m not suggesting that anyone who loses a partner should move, but the move seems right to me. For now.

Last night, when I awoke in the darkness needing to make a trip to the bathroom, I was reminded something Ted Kluszewski (who played for the Cincinnati Reds) said (and which is painted on a wall at Oracle Park):

”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.”

So is grieving. So is moving while you’re grieving. But I’m hoping that learning to walk through my pitch-black room (physical and emotional) will get easier as I adjust to living at my new place.