Where We Live
A few months ago, before the election was over, Sarah and I made a pact. When this thing was finished, win or lose, we were getting out of town. Not really out of town. Just up the hill.
No airports. No TSA. No overpriced Mai Tais served by someone named Chad who moved to Maui six months ago and suddenly became a spiritual advisor. Just two nights at Long Barn Lodge. Ten minutes from home. At the time it seemed ridiculous. Who takes a vacation ten minutes from home?
We do.
And after the last year, it may have been the smartest decision we’ve made in a long time.
For months our lives had revolved around the campaign. Forums. Fundraisers. Phone calls. Canvassing. Newsletters. Endless conversations about roads, fire protection, housing, public safety, budgets, and every other issue that matters when you genuinely care about where you live.
By the time election season ended, we were exhausted.
Not defeated. Not victorious. Just flat out tired. The kind of tired that tells you to slap that alarm and stay in bed.
The weather that weekend was absurdly perfect. It’s weather that makes you question every life decision that doesn’t involve just sitting outside and doing nothing. We parked ourselves beside the pool at Long Barn Lodge and for the first time in months neither of us felt compelled to check our phones. No emails. No campaign updates. No social media. Just sunshine, mountain air, and the sound of kids launching themselves into the pool with complete disregard for physics. ‘NO DIVING!”
A family from Fort Lauderdale was staying there. The mom, Shelly, had grown up in Modesto before life carried her through Las Vegas, Texas, New Orleans, and eventually Florida. Now she was back. Not because she had to be. Because she wanted her husband and children to experience the place that helped shape her.
These mountains... People leave. But somehow they never really leave.
Later we drove to Strawberry. Naturally we stopped at the Strawberry Store. Affogatos. Gelato and espresso.
My God. It’s like somebody figured out how to package your childhood and adult happiness into the same paper cup. One taste and suddenly you’re ten years old and fifty years old all at the same time.
I bought another sweatshirt I absolutely did not need. Sarah bought socks and a deck of playing cards. The essentials.
Then we headed down Old Strawberry Road. Almost immediately we ran into friends trying to convince their dogs that the middle of the road is not a suitable place to play.That’s life here. You don’t simply live in a community. You’re part of it.
A little later we sat at Pinecrest Lake. Kids were splashing. Families were grilling. Large dogs were dragging their respective humans around like personal trainers. Canadian geese were conducting their usual campaign of intimidation. People were laughing, fishing, sailing. All pretending they could stay forever.
And for a moment all the noise disappeared. The election. The arguments. The endless social media outrage machine. Gone. Reduced to background static against something much larger.
Across the water stood those granite walls near the inlet, ancient and unmoved by any of our nonsense. They have watched generations come and go. They have heard the tall tales of every fish that was never caught. And there they remain. Silently reminding us how small we really are.
That evening at Mia’s, the weekend revealed what it was really about. The food was excellent. It always is. But the food wasn’t the story. The people were. One table held friends who had opened their homes for campaign meet-and-greets. Another held the realtor who showed us the house we still call home. A few minutes later another friend stopped by. Then another. Then another. One had spent days walking neighborhoods during the campaign. Another had volunteered countless hours helping connect people. Another simply wanted to say hello. Before long it felt less like a restaurant and more like Thanksgiving dinner.
Hugs. Stories. Laughter. Encouragement.
The kind of conversations that remind you that politics did not create these relationships. Community did. And that’s when it hit me. What makes Tuolumne County special isn’t Pinecrest. Or Strawberry. Or Dodge Ridge. Or Twain Harte. Those places matter. But they aren’t the reason we stay.
Because We Live Here
The reason we stay is each other. The people. Real people. No rat race. No Jones’. People. The ones who coach your kid’s thing they do after school. The people who volunteer in that club. The people who host fundraisers for scholarships for the kids. The people who check on neighbors. The people who show up after a loss and celebrate after a win. The people who continue investing in our place year after year because we love it. Not because it’s perfect but because it’s incredibly awesome… it’s home.
As the sun disappeared behind the trees at Pinecrest on our final evening, Sarah and I talked about what comes next. And somewhere between the lake, the mountains, the friends, the laughter, and the frogs singing us to sleep at night, I realized something. Win or lose, if you live here, you’ve already won. Because we get to call this place home. And the people who call this place home know what matters. We know our communities. We know our roads. We know our forests. We know our businesses. We know our families. We know what’s worth protecting. And we know what kind of future we want to leave behind.
Because we live here.
And nobody will ever know what’s best for Tuolumne County better than the people who wake up every morning, look around at these mountains, and call this place home.
My commitment
My commitment to this community does not begin or end with an election.
I will continue attending meetings, reading agenda packets, and translating complicated county issues into plain English. I will continue sharing what is happening in local government, asking questions, recognizing good decisions, and speaking up when I think we can do better.
But that’s only part of the story.
I also want to celebrate the people, businesses, events, organizations, and volunteers who make Tuolumne County such a special place to live. The new restaurant opening its doors. The nonprofit raising money for a good cause. The local musician playing a small stage. The community event bringing neighbors together. The business owner taking a chance on a dream.
Because government is only one piece of community.
The real story of Tuolumne County has always been its people.
We may not always agree, and that’s okay. Healthy communities need different perspectives. But when we stay informed, stay engaged, and stay connected, we become more than a collection of individuals.
We become a community.
So I’ll keep showing up, sharing what I learn, highlighting the good work happening around us, and doing my small part to keep people connected.
