On Sunday, I’ll make the two-hour drive to Auburn to participate in the Gold Country Fair’s Livestock Awards Ceremony. The Junior Livestock Committee is commemorating Sami by naming a perpetual trophy for Master Showmanship in her honor, and I want to be there to help present it to this year’s winner. I haven’t been to the Gold Country Fair, where Sami was on the board of directors, since she passed away; Sami’s last fair was in 2022. As a director, Sami took on the organization of the master showmanship competition during her time on the board. For those of you wondering what the heck master showmanship is, it is a livestock showmanship competition where the competitors qualify by winning the showmanship contest for the species they bring to the fair. In showmanship, the judge evaluates each competitor’s ability to present their animal and their knowledge of the species and the industry. In master showmanship, these competitors show all of the species of livestock. Both of our daughters competed in master showmanship during their 4-H and FFA careers, and so I’m expecting Sunday afternoon to be bittersweet.
This morning, as I was driving through the foothill communities of San Andreas and Angels Camp on my way to talk about grazing in vineyards at a breakfast meeting in Murphys, I heard one of my favorite new songs from the Turnpike Troubadours (On the Red River), which talks about growing up in ranching family in a rural community. Perhaps it was because I was thinking about going back to the community where Sami and I raised our family (and where we still have so many friends), but the song made me think about the life that we built during our time in Placer County. Some of what we accomplished was intentional; some of that life just happened because of where we were and who we were. But when I look at the young women our daughters are today, I’m incredibly grateful for the friendships and experiences that were part of being a ranching family. Flying Mule Farm / Sheep Company was never terribly successful from a financial perspective, but I’ve learned there are other ways to measure “profit.” And yes, that’s difficult for an agricultural economist like me to admit!
In some ways, at least as I was driving to work this morning, that “old” life seems to have ended when Sami passed away. Part of this feeling, I’m sure, comes from having sold our place in Auburn and moved to Calaveras County last year. But part of it, I think, comes from acknowledging that while Sami and I both had our own lives, own interests, our own friends; but as a couple - as a family - we were part of a community that we helped nurture. That we helped to build.
My journey over these last two-plus years has given me an odd sense of perspective. I’m still here, and yet part of me died when Sami died. Without Sami, that part of my “life” seems behind me now; looking back at that life can often feel surreal. The before and after line that I described in a recent blog seems to divide that life from the life I’m leading now. While that makes me a little sad this afternoon, I also have a sense of accomplishment - that we (and our children) were able to be part of that community.
As I’ve written before, my move to Calaveras County feels like moving “home” in some sense - I have lifelong contacts in Calaveras and Tuolumne Counties (where I grew up). I’ve spent the last year renewing these friendships and making a few new ones. I’ve spent the last year working to become part of a new community. Today, I realized that becoming part of a community without a partner - without Sami - feels very different. I’m certain that part of this difference stems from my grief - I simply don’t have the energy to be around people as much as I once did. But it also feels different not to be known by part of the community as “Dr. Macon’s husband” - just as Sami was known to some as the “sheepherder’s husband.”
An old friend who visited me shortly after Sami’s death remarked in wonder about the support our Placer County community gave us during and after her illness. Folks mowed our lawn, moved the irrigation water at the ranch, checked on the sheep, built fence. Brought us food. Just called or texted to check in on us. He told me, “That’s not the kind of community I live in.” Even today, friends from that “old” life remain friends, checking in on me, asking about the girls. Despite my sense that everything has changed, the life that we built is still part of the life I live today - even in a new community.
On Monday, some folks from Mountain Ranch who I’ve counted as friends for more than 30 years, invited me to their ranch for their annual dove and polenta lunch. I saw other friends I’ve known through the ranching community, and met some new people I hope to get to know better. And tonight, for the first time, I’m going to make myself go to the monthly Mountain Ranch community potluck dinner. Being part of my community, I’m realizing, is part of who I am - even though everything is different. Community, I realize is part of the life I will continue to build.
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