What would Danny Branch do?

Wendell Berry’s passing this week hit me harder than I expected. I started reading Wendell Berry’s fiction shortly after graduating from college, and I have read (and re-read) most of his works of fiction, many of his essays, and a good portion of his poetry. In fact, the only book I haven’t read is his most well-known, The Unsettling of America, which I purchased while I was in college. I expect I’ll read it now.

I first conceived of this blog post on Monday evening, as I was hanging clothes on the line - I’ve not purchased a dryer, which now seems like a very Berry-esque thing NOT to do. I had difficulty sleeping that night - Berry’s passing hit me harder than I would have thought. It reminded me of the grief I still carry. Of what was lost when I moved back closer home. Of the losses that precipitated the move. And perhaps what was gained.

Danny Branch was the fictional illegitimate son of one of my favorite Berry characters, Burley Coulter. During the final days of Sami’s illness, the story from Fidelity about Danny picking up his unconscious father at the hospital so he could die on a farm where he’d spent much of his life working gave me strength. And inspiration. I thought of this story on the last night of Sami’s life. How many of us are lucky enough to read something so powerful - exactly when we need it.

More than 20 years ago, I wrote to Mr. Berry once. I asked him something about the Amish and the relationship between their sense of community and their way of farming. To my great surprise and everlasting delight, he wrote back! Somewhere in a file, I still have his letter. Around the same time as our correspondence, I got to see him speak in Sacramento. I found him every bit as engaging, humorous, and thought-provoking as his fictional characters.

In many ways, Berry was a contrarian when it came to modern agriculture. Even so, I’ve used Berry’s essays in my extension work. I’ve used his fictional works to inform my sense of community. He wrote about the Port William Membership - and I’ve experienced some of that feeling during my ranching and extension days in Placer County. And I’m experiencing it again as I’ve returned to the communities where I grew up. I am reminded (again) that being an old timer in an agrarian community is as much an attitude as a chronological condition. Berry describes Danny Branch in similar terms.

I’ve also used his fictional work to inform business decisions. Making do with old equipment takes willpower for me (I can be overly enamoured with fresh paint and shiny things), but I think of the characters in his work when I’m trying to decide how to ranch. I’m in the midst of conceiving a new agricultural and timber enterprise with my daughters and their partners - and re-reading Berry’s work this week has reminded me - again - of the value of “making do.”

When I think about his life and his writing, I know that I fall short - but don’t we all fall short of fictional and real heroes. Isn’t that the role that heroes play - encouraging us toward unattainable excellence? I’m too into material things. I’m writing this on my computer (rather than in a notebook by hand, as Berry drafted all of his published works). I bought a tractor (he farmed with horses). And yet his written work and spoken words are part of the lens through which I see the world - or more accurately, the lens through which I see the community I hope to be part of.

In Berry’s fictional works, Danny Branch was the heir of everything that was good - and that was hard - about being part of the Port William Membership. He farmed with horses (which I’ve tried). He valued the old ways and tried to make a living from the land in a modernizing landscape. He hung on during an age when small farms were consolidating or becoming housing tracts. As Berry wrote in his poem, “Manifesto: The Mad Farmer Liberation Front,” every day, Danny did something that didn’t compute. I aspire to do the same!

While I’m sad about his passing, I feel a sense of responsibility. Not to be Wendell Berry, but to create and support the kind of community that was central to his writing. To his life. He could make me think. I’m pro-choice, he was pro-life. But his thinking and writing on the subject (as on many others) wasn’t divisive; rather, I found it well-reasoned, consistent with his other perspectives on life (and death and spirituality), and thought-provoking. And inspired by a love for the world around him.

The morning after his passing, I took a cup of coffee to the top of my hill and watched the sun burn through the mist of the first truly fall-like day. It was not, as Berry writes, season-turning weather, but the autumn feel to the day seemed fitting. I went to lunch at a friend’s ranch - doves in red sauce on polenta. And I felt the pull of membership. That evening, I dined on lamb chops from lambs I raised, squash from my garden, tomatoes grown by someone I know brought to me by a friend. And potatoes from the little store that serves this little town. Before dinner, I split wood and talked to neighbors about deer hunting. And I felt I was part of the membership of this little spot in the Sierra foothills. I’m an imperfect human (aren’t we all?!), but I’m lucky to be able to live like this. Berry helps us see the choices we can make that ensure this way of life persists.

In many ways, Wendell Berry’s work inspired me to start my Foothill Agrarian blog 17 years ago. I have no illusions about how my writing compares to his, but I do think the places on this planet that we live in and work on - the relationship between working landscapes and the people who work on them - need local champions. Of Berry’s many legacies, this is the most important to me.

A Million Sets of Eyeballs

On February 15, 2009, I wrote my first Foothill Agrarian blog post. At that point, I’d been raising sheep and selling meat at Farmer’s Markets for about four years. I had also tried (or would try in the coming years) producing summer and fall vegetables, selling firewood, and getting paid for targeted grazing. Today, more than 17 years (and many hundreds of posts) later, my blog has been viewed more than one million times! Even if some of these page views are from bots, this is a staggering number of eyes that have read my words!

Originally, my blog focused almost entirely on my own farming experience and on the local food movement in the Sierra foothills. I wrote about the day-to-day, season-to-season, year-to-year work of raising sheep. I talked about the joys and frustrations of trying to make a living from ranching without actually owning a ranch. Occasionally, I wrote more philosophical essays about production systems or my community’s relationship with the land. Since Sami’s diagnosis with glioblastoma in 2023, most of my posts have dealt with her illness and death, and with my own grieving process.

Obviously, I enjoy writing. I find that exercising my writing muscle regularly helps me improve (or at least I hope I’ve improved). I also find, when I go back and look at some of my earliest posts, that my perspective on farming and ranching has evolved over the last 17 years. The optimism of my early years as a shepherd eventually bumped up against the realities of trying to make a living with livestock. Similarly, the grief I’ve felt over these last three years has also evolved. Through the years, though, putting my thoughts into words and putting my words into the world have been hugely valuable for me. I hope they’ve been valuable to some of the folks who’ve read them.  

Wildfire Up Close (or at least Close Enough!)

On Thursday afternoon (August 20), I was in my cooperative extension office in San Andreas, California, getting ready to meet with a colleague on Zoom - just a typical day. When my phone chirped at 1:18pm, I glanced at the Watch Duty alert I’d received and saw “Loma Fire - area of Loma Serena Road, Mountain Ranch.” Since I live on Loma Serena Road, I immediately opened the app - and saw that Watch Duty put the preliminary point of origin- for what was already a 3 acre fire - on my property! I grabbed my computer bag and my hat and headed for home.

The drive home typically takes me 22 minutes - I made it considerably faster this time. In between calling neighbors (who either didn’t answer or who were also not home but headed that way), a number of thoughts went through my head:

If this fire did start on my place, what caused it? Are my dogs, sheep, goats, mules, and chickens okay? Is the fuel reduction work I did this spring, with grazing, weed-whacking, and pile burning, enough to protect my home and outbuildings? Did the fire start on the abandoned and overgrown property next door? What do I do if CHP and the sheriff's office have already closed the road? Should I try to evacuate the animals or stay and protect them - and my house? And why did I wear this crappy polyester shirt from UCANR!? I ALWAYS wear cotton during fire season!

This was my first direct experience with a fire so close (or perhaps even on!) my property - but not my first direct experience with feeling a mixture of anxiety and adrenaline. As I drove through the town of Mountain Ranch and past Sheep Ranch Road, I began to see smoke in the direction of home. I realized that the fire camera photo I’d seen on Watch Duty showed white smoke, which gave me some comfort that at least early on, the fire wasn’t burning in brush or timber (or my house!). And when I came around the curve past the old Spur Market on Rail Road Flat Road, I could see that the fire was not burning near my house; rather, it was between Old Emigrant Trail East and Swiss Ranch Road. Whew!

I spent the next 90 minutes standing on a hilltop across the road from my house, watching the fire with my neighbors. We were within the mandatory evacuation zone (and a sheriff’s deputy did come by), but the direction of the wind and the location of the fire (in the Jesus Maria Creek drainage) made us feel as though we weren’t in imminent danger. As did the magnitude of the fire fighting effort. Eventually, two S-2 tankers, a C-130 tanker, and two helicopters were working the fire, along with numerous engines and water tenders (from CalFire and Central Calaveras Fire, and perhaps other agencies), and several hand crews. Shortly after I arrived, the fire made it into the timber above the creek, but several water and fire retardant drops seemed to knock it back. By 4pm, the fire was still smoldering but its activity was greatly diminished. Watch Duty reported that the fire was holding within retardant lines. I went home and checked on my critters and my property.

I was not living in Mountain Ranch when the Butte Fire burned through my neighborhood in 2025, but many of the neighbors I talked with were. Others had experienced several other large fires in the region stretching back 40 years or more. As I reflected on our conversations, all of us took this fire seriously, but we were calm about what was happening.

And even though I'm new to the community, I felt (again) the importance of understanding that the word "neighbor" is both a verb and a noun! As I stood on the hill above the fire, both of the young men who have fed my animals when I travel texted to offer help or a place to evacuate my livestock. Family and friends from Tuolumne and Calaveras County called to check on me and offer help. Others texted or reached out on social media. I met new neighbors, too - and while I was (and am!) grateful to the first responders who were fighting the fire, I had a sense that our own community self-reliance is critical.

Later that evening, as fire crews continued their mop up, I went down to the road where the fire had actually originated, and talked to a few neighbors who were more directly impacted. There appeared to be several small spot fires that had started in vegetation that had been mown or grazed, and which hadn’t been able to spread any further - which made me more confident in the work that my grazing animals have done around my house. We also all speculated about how the fire had started - as usual, I suspect, there were lots of rumors (and perhaps some truth).

Reflecting on Thursday afternoon, I'm realizing that my wildfire preparations aren't perfect. I need to work on several trees near my garage - either taking them out or pruning them back. I need to cut better fire breaks around my sawmill site. I need more water storage to ensure I'll still have water even if the power goes out. I was lucky that this fire started in the next drainage south of my place - the up-slope winds were definitely a driving factor.

But this morning, 36 hours later, I’m relieved that the fire wasn’t more dangerous - but I’m also aware that we’ve not yet reached the worst part of our fire season. I feel for the people in my community who lost outbuildings or other assets (I haven’t heard, yet, whether any homes were damaged or destroyed). I won’t rest easy (nor will my neighbors, I suspect) until the first significant rainfall this autumn.

TWO AARP Magazines?! Really?!

My current mood can be traced back three weeks ago, when I hosted my supervisor and my cooperative extension colleagues on a tour of one of my research sites high in the Sierra Nevada. My supervisor related how she had told one of my advisor colleagues that she should ask me about a car care question - that I had “good dad vibes.”

Make no mistake - among my many roles and identities, “Dad” is one of my favorites. And I also know that being a Dad means sharing - at times unsolicited (just ask my daughters!) - lessons learned from experience. But if I’m honest, her comment also made me feel old.

At the end of that week, I travelled to Idaho for work, and continued on to Colorado to see my youngest daughter, Emma. During my trip, I was especially struck by the respect with which I was treated by complete strangers (in airports, at restaurants, etc.). I don’t know that I’ve ever been called “sir” so frequently. Maybe I was simply more aware of the term.

Tonight, I’ve just returned home after two days of (at least for me) physically demanding field work. I’m exhausted. Along with a handful of colleagues, I am five years into a project examining the effects of targeted grazing with sheep and goats in a commercial mixed conifer landscape. Our work these last two days has involved crashing through stands of 10 foot high deer brush in the Mosquito Fire burn scar to estimate biomass. We’re working on 30 to 45 degree slopes in vegetation where we can’t see one another from 15 feet away.

Last night, we enjoyed an amazing barbecue dinner - I brought ground lamb, hamburger buns, and homemade pesto. My colleagues brought potatoes and corn for roasting, and lettuce and tomatoes for the lamb burgers. We had a great time!

But during the course of the conversation, I realized that I am 21 years older than my next oldest colleague on this project. I was doing a college internship for the California Cattlemen’s Association in the year that he was born! I was well into my career when the others were born. Maybe I am old! And so I also wondered about how my colleagues viewed me - did they take it easy on me as we were trudging up and down the brushy slopes at UC Berkeley’s Blodgett Experimental Forest?! I hope not! But I’m appreciative if they did….

Here’s the thing…. I still feel like I’m 25 between my ears. Younger, sometimes - when I think about asking someone on a “date” and still feel awkward. Some would say that my sense of humor stalled out at about 12 years old. Even when I look at myself in a mirror and see the gray in my mustache, I still see a younger version of me. I never think to ask for a senior discount - mostly because I don’t think of myself as a senior! On the other hand, though, I feel my age after a day like this - after the two-and-a-half hour drive home this afternoon, I was stiff and sore when I got out of the truck. And I don’t have much energy this evening. Tonight, I feel every bit of 59!

Some of my current mood, no doubt, is related to the anniversary of Sami’s passing. Stressful situations, I know, age a person. Whenever I see a photograph of me from before COVID, I’m struck by how dark my mustache was just 6 years ago! I’m certain the stress of being a Dad to a high school student and a college student through the pandemic, followed by Sami’s brief illness and passing, has been part of turning my facial hair silver!

But this evening, as I turned onto my road and stopped for my mail, I found two (that’s right, TWO!!) copies of the AARP magazine in my mailbox. Both addressed to Sami! She would have been so pissed! She hated being called ma’am - and she hated seeing gray in her hair!

Feeling old - and actually getting old, I guess - is a privilege. I hope I get older! And I hope that whatever lessons I’ve learned in 59 years (I’ll turn 60 eight months from tomorrow) are helpful!

But please - just one AARP magazine is enough….

Do They Remember?

Maybe 14 or 15 years ago, I gave away one of my favorite livestock guardian dogs, Boise. He was an Akbash-cross, and he was named by our youngest daughter, Emma. She wanted to name him Daisy, but I said, “Emma, he’s a boy dog.” She replied, “Okay, his name is Boise.” Since that time, every livestock guardian dog we’ve owned was named after a western town - we’ve had Reno, Vegas, Bodie, Dillon, and Elko. And I might be forgetting one or two!

Boise was a great dog - protective of his sheep, submissive in their presence. But his protectiveness led him to leave our electro-net paddocks. If there was something that needed to get away from the sheep, he made sure to let them know. In our operation, on leased pastures in the midst of small ranchettes, we couldn’t keep a dog who wouldn’t stay in his pasture. And so I gave him to McCormack Sheep and Grain in Rio Vista, where he would protect sheep on more than 3,000 acres. And where the neighbors (all farmers and ranchers) wouldn’t object to a big white dog chasing coyotes through their properties.

Several years later, for a short time, I went to work for McCormack Sheep and Grain. On my first day, I drove up to the lambing barn and Boise ran out to the road and gave me absolute hell. I rolled down the window and said, “Hey, Boise!” He paused, and then went into a whole body wag. He didn’t recognize the truck, but he recognized me! Or at least my voice, my appearance, and my scent.

I think of my experience with Boise periodically when I’m feeding the mules. Or working my small handful of sheep and goats with Mae, my border collie. Or when I decide to try to brush my last remaining livestock guardian dog, Bodie. Or on days like today, when I visit the sheep owned by my friend Nathan, who took my guardian dog Dillon when I sold most of my sheep after Sami’s passing. By the way, I’m pretty sure Dillon recognized me!.

I think of this because these animals - my mules, Frisbee and Boomer, and my dogs, Mae and Bodie, are the animals who “knew” Sami. And the animals who Sami knew. Do they recognize her absence? Do they remember?

I don’t want to anthropomorphize animals, but I do wonder about how animals recognize places, people, and things. I suspect sight and smell are a big part of this - and probably sound. Why did Boise recognize me when I rolled down my window and spoke to him?

Boomer, Sami’s mule, is an interesting case study. He was an extreme case of a “one person mule.” He preferred women, but he much preferred Sami to anyone else. When Sami was alive, he’d rarely - if ever - let me approach him, let alone put a halter on me. I’ve never ridden Boomer

Today, he’s still reluctant to let me touch him. But with a bribe of grain (or with the manipulation of ignoring him while spending time with his sister - and my mule - Frisbee), I can handle him. I wonder if I had a piece of clothing that smelled like Sami whether this would be easier.

What about the dogs that knew Sami. Bodie hates to be brushed, but he would tolerate it from Sami. Mae doesn’t like to work for anyone but me, but she’d grudgingly work for Sami. Do they remember her?

And I wonder about the nature of memory. Sensory perceptions - a song, a scent, or a particular sight that we enjoyed together can bring back memories of Sami. Today, I heard the song Road to Las Cruces (the Corb Lund version), which we happened to hear as we were approaching Las Cruces on our last trip together in 2023. And the song - the words, yes, but also the tune - brought back memories. And even though I’m in a new place, these hot, late July days bring back memories of Sami’s last seizure and our decision to enter hospice care.

I do think animals and humans get to know one another. My mules certainly see when the light comes on in the kitchen in the morning - and they give me about 45 minutes to myself before they expect to be fed. Bodie knows when the border collies yip with excitement in the mornings and evenings that I’m headed out to feed him. Is this nothing more than a Pavlovian response? Maybe. But I think it’s more than conditioning. I also think about the point in time when I will have animals who didn’t know Sami. And who Sami didn’t know. 

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.

Grief, Memory, and Geography

Over the last week, my work has taken me to several places in the Sierra Nevada that Sami and I visited. Last week, I participated in a Forest Service meadow monitoring training in the Lakes Basin Recreation Area between Sierra City and Graeagle. I camped with my dogs next to Snag Lake, near Gold Lake Highway. This week, I’m collecting data for an ongoing targeted grazing research project at UC Berkeley’s Blodgett Research Forest east of Georgetown. After a warm day of crawling through deer brush, I took my dogs swimming up Wentworth Springs Road at Stumpy Meadows Reservoir.

These excursions remind me of earlier trips to these regions with Sami - in some cases, even before we were parents. I can remember driving Wentworth Springs Road headed for Ice House Reservoir one Memorial Day weekend when we were first married, in the early 1990s. As I recall, we learned that the campground at Ice House was full, and decided to head for the Sonora Pass area. I can also remember a trip past Stumpy Meadows with our friends John and Sandy Schwartzler - and their American Cream mules - in the early 2000s. We drove the mules on logging roads all afternoon. It was one of my first experiences driving a team!

Somewhere around 2000, we took our vacation at Elwell Lakes Lodge in the Lakes Basin country. We stayed in a cabin and spent our days hiking and fishing. I think Lara was nearly 3 years old - I can remember packing her on my back when she grew tired of walking. And I remember catching brook trout on a little lake on the west side of Long Lake. It was a great trip - and our first real vacation as parents.

But these trips happened more than 20 years ago now. These memories are both happy and hazy. And at this stage in my grieving process, I find myself wishing I could ask Sami what she remembers about them. Did we really stay at my parents’ house on that night we found no room at Ice House (and were my parents gone, as I seem to remember)? When we drove the mules, was Emma old enough to walk? Did Lara get to help drive them for a bit? Did our first trip to Lakes Basin lead to a second camping trip? And did we experience an earthquake while we were playing at a nearby lake? And what lake was it?

I wrote recently that I was struggling with not having big conversations about Sami’s wishes for me and the girls after she got sick. But I’ve realized that what I really miss, in many ways, is being able to reminisce about these happy experiences. I miss seeing these memories through Sami’s eyes. I miss laughing about how we both remembered different things about these happy times.

Much like music, the geography that Sami and I once enjoyed together can be bittersweet for me. Traveling routes alone that we once traveled together can make me both sad and happy. In my little corner of the planet - the Sierra Nevada and Sierra foothills between Quincy and Yosemite - I’ll often go around a bend in the road, or drive up the main street of a little town - and remember something that we experienced together in that place.

But I’ve also realized - just today - that I’m doing things (finally) by myself that Sami would not have enjoyed doing together (at least at the age we’d both be now). Several years before she got sick, Sami said she no longer enjoyed camping if it meant sleeping on the ground. I’ve always loved to camp - and still do. And this spring and early summer, I’ve camped both for fun and for work - 3 nights in the last month. I hope I continue to find new things (or rediscover old things) that I enjoy doing on my own. I suppose this is part of the grieving process as well.

Memory is an interesting phenomenon. I’ve always thought the smell of fresh cut grass in the spring meant baseball; in the fall, it meant football. Music has always transported me back to the place - and the emotions - where I first heard a particular song. And the geography I return to, I’m learning, reminds me of experiencing it for the first time with Sami. At least this evening, these memories don’t bring the intense sadness they did when I first traveled after Sami’s passing. At least this evening, they bring a mix of melancholy and happiness. Maybe that’s moving forward with my grief….