I recently discovered an article I began writing 10 years ago: Jim and I make our way up the grassy slope, sidestepping Canada geese droppings, on our way to our neighbor’s studio. Jeane has invited us to another of her wonderful musical events. As we work our way to one of the long dining tables, I recognize a guest but struggle to remember her name. “It’s Carolyn,” she says, knowing a blank look when she sees one. There’s barely room for two more at the table, but Jim and I squeezed in. “I’m moving to England,” Carolyn says between bites. Her eyes twinkle behind rimless glasses. “Moving?” She must mean “Visiting.” When I watch a British series and see actors battling the pelting rain, it immediately squashes any urge for me to return to my native England. “I’m going in February,” Carolyn continues. “I’m getting married over there to an English guy, and we’ll be living in Manchester.” “Did you meet him over here?” I ask, too polite to question her move. “We met in England at an Ian Hunter concert, the frontman for the Mott the Hoople rock group,” Carolyn responds. Now I remember her. We met at another of Jeane’s events, and Carolyn mentioned this Mott the Hoople group that originated in Hereford, England, in the late '60s. Hunter developed a cult following, and devotees, which included Carolyn, would follow the band all over the world. A core group of fans traditionally meet at a club near the venue for pre-concert drinks. It was at one of these gatherings in a Leeds pub that Carolyn met her husband-to-be, Dave. “I liked him when I first saw him,” she said. “During one of our conversations, he mentioned he enjoyed being single. I thought, ‘Oh well, so much for that.’ The next time I saw him, I was staying overnight at his house with a group, following one of Mott’s concerts in Manchester. As I was climbing the stairs to the guest room, Dave appeared and asked if I would like to spend the night in his room. I was taken aback, having thought he wasn’t interested in me. I told him 'no,' but I was secretly pleased he’d asked. The next morning, Dave apologized for coming on to me. 'I’m so embarrassed,' he said. I assured him I wasn't offended - it simply wasn't the right time. I reminded him he’d once told me he enjoyed being single, and that I’d taken it as a hint that he didn’t want to get involved. He laughed, and said he meant he was happy, and single. “Dave and I were getting serious, but we knew only meeting at these concerts wasn’t a real-world environment, so I’d go over to Manchester, hang out at his house and we’d shop and garden together. We got along great, although we agreed that before we moved in together, Dave would buy another television so he could watch football, and I could watch Downton Abbey.” Carolyn talked about her wedding plans. “Dave said he’s happy to leave all the arrangements to me. Neither of us likes to dance (which I thought was ironic since they traveled the world to listen to rock music), but we agreed we’d have one dance and just hold each other and move from side to side. His only request,” she continued, “was that I select a wedding dress that has cleavage, and I thought, I can handle that." (I winced at this revelation). Carolyn’s eyes twinkled again. Several weeks after the musical event, I bumped into a friend at a local grocery store. Susan mentioned seeing me talking to Carolyn at Jeane’s and did I know Carolyn was immigrating to England. I said that I did. Susan moved her cart closer. “If anyone deserves a little happiness, it’s Carolyn,” she whispered. I was intrigued. “Carolyn,” she continued, “took care of her mother and her disabled brother for years.” She was about to continue when a woman rolled her cart up beside us and spoke to Susan. My article from a decade ago ended here. Now, 10 years later, I wondered if Carolyn had moved to England. I located her via a mutual friend. Carolyn married Dave and is living in Stockport, a few miles south of Manchester. Via email, she writes, "I got my British citizenship in 2020, but still have my American accent." Carolyn is happy she made the move, although she wrote that it rains too much (surprise!). Despite that, she prefers the rain to the threat of California wildfires. She reads the online Loomis News and misses friends and relatives. Zoom cereal and Baker's Joy cooking spray can’t be found anywhere, and she craves old-fashioned doughnuts like the buttermilk bars and apple fritters you get from Jasmine's in Rocklin. She tried driving on the left side, just once. I bet it was raining.

I know I’m not the only one who’s stunned when they see someone familiar out of their usual habitat. My first memory of this was at age 13, seeing my cooking teacher in R. Rowlatt and Sons, Ironmongery and Hardware Merchants, a shop in my hometown on Silver Street. I stood and stared. She was shopping like an ordinary person. I had never seen her outside of the classroom, where she directed us girls to wash our hands and scrub our nails before we touched a rolling pin. She knew who I was – mostly because I was one of only four dark-skinned kids in the entire school. But also, because I was the girl whose attempt at bread making she held up as an example of how not to. My dough, instead of rising to a soft mound like those of all the other girls, was as hard as a rock chiseled from Hadrian’s Wall. I had killed the yeast. To this day, I am intimidated by any recipe that has yeast as an ingredient. My most recent imitation of a deer in the headlights was on a nippy summer morning in Waterford, Ireland, during a European vacation. My husband, Jim, and I were on our way to the famous Waterford Crystal showroom. A short distance from our destination, I casually glanced up at a sign on the outside of City Hall. Had the plaque not been bright blue with white lettering, I might have missed it. I paused and read these words: FREDERICK DOUGLASS AMERICAN ABOLITIONIST SOCIAL REFORMER AND STATESMAN SPOKE IN CITY HALL 9TH OCT-1845. Oh, my goodness. What was Frederick Douglass, an enslaved Black American, doing in Ireland in 1845? I knew a little about Frederick Douglass – that he was enslaved at birth and became a famous orator. But I was ashamed I didn’t know more and remedied that when I returned to the United States. I purchased a copy of Douglass, his three autobiographies compiled into one volume. I also searched the internet for information about the plaque. I read in the Irish Times that a Timothy J. Madigan, director of Irish Studies at St. John Fisher College in Rochester, NY, was in attendance in Waterford when dignitaries unveiled the plaque in 2013. I shot off an email to Professor Madigan, and was delighted when he responded the very next day. He began his email with, “Hi Pauline – great to hear from you!” He said my timing was perfect. He’d recently given a talk about Frederick Douglass’ experiences in Ireland, and the various memorials to him, which included the commemorative plaque Jim and I saw in Waterford. I learned Rochester and Waterford have been sister cities since 1983 and celebrated their 30-year anniversary with the unveiling of the Douglass plaque. From the various resource links provided by Professor Madigan, I read that Frederick Douglass lived for 25 years in Rochester and is buried in the city’s Mount Hope Cemetery. The publication in Rochester of one of his autobiographies put him in danger of being captured and returned to slavery. Abolitionists’ friends convinced him to travel to Great Britain for his own protection. He stayed there for almost two years, giving several hundred lectures – one was in Waterford City Hall. Several articles highlighted Douglass’ time in Ireland, and the profound effect it had on him. Often quoted is this excerpt from a letter Douglass wrote to his friend and mentor, William Lloyd Garrison, the famous white abolitionist: “I am covered with the soft, grey fog of the Emerald Isle. I breathe, and Lo! the chattel becomes a man. I gaze around in vain for one who will question my equal humanity, claim me as his slave, or offer me an insult. I employ a cab – I am seated beside white people – I reach the hotel – I enter the same door … I dine at the same table – and no one is offended. No delicate nose grows deformed in my presence … I meet nothing to remind me of my complexion. I find myself regarded and treated at every turn with the kindness and deference paid to white people.” British benefactors purchased Douglass’ freedom from his Maryland enslaver, ensuring his safety when he returned to the United States. The price: 150 pounds sterling. In Waterford, my husband and I continued our walk to the crystal factory. There, displayed among commemorative pieces, was an exquisite crystal bowl. It was a replica of a gift presented to a president of the United States by then-Prime Minister Enda Kenny TD, on behalf of the people of Ireland. The recipient was the son of a Black man – President Barack Obama.

“Don’t get both shots in one arm.” It was our daughter, Tina, calling. “I did that two days ago and still regret it.” I remembered Tina’s advice as Jim and I motored down the hill to the CVS Pharmacy in Auburn. Since COVID, we’re getting vaccinated more consistently. And a recent reading of Charlotte DeCroes Jacobs’ biography, “Jonas Salk – A Life,” only strengthened that commitment. Ms. Jacobs begins with these chilling words: “In the summer of 1916, New York’s playgrounds stood empty. No children splashed in public swimming pools; none sold lemonade on the sidewalks. …” I had no idea America’s first polio epidemic occurred 40 years before my first polio vaccination in 1956. As I ploughed through the Salk biography (559 pages), skipping most of the shocking clinical trials, I discovered I knew even less about Dr. Salk than I thought. That he was extraordinarily dedicated was no surprise – he often spent 16 hours a day in his laboratory toiling to eradicate what the public feared, “second only to the atomic bomb.” But his personal life was in shambles. He neglected his family. “There were rumors of affairs … no one adored Salk more than America’s women.” And he inexplicably struggled to achieve acceptance from the scientific community. Despite obstacles, success came at last. On April 12, 1955, funded almost entirely from March of Dimes donations, Dr. Salk’s vaccine was approved. Six years later, polio was almost eradicated from the United States. Millions wrote him letters of gratitude. Countless universities bestowed honorary degrees upon him. Medals galore were hung around his neck – the most prestigious from the sitting president, Dwight D. Eisenhower. The celebrity he never sought overwhelmed Salk. I’ve only known a few people who contracted polio. One is my daughter’s mother-in-law, Mary Patt, and the other is Larry Rolufs, who I met through Auburn’s Newcomers and Neighbors club. Mary Patt was 6 years old in 1940 when she fell ill. One morning, she tried to get out of bed, fell to the floor and couldn’t get up. The next two years of her young life, she was isolated from her family in the Children’s Hospital in Los Angeles and spent five days encased in an iron lung. “When my dad came to see me in the hospital,” she told me on the phone, from Chico, “I told him, ‘Get me out of this tin can.’ ” She and I both laughed. Larry was born the year Mary Patt contracted polio. Six years later, he too was stricken with the devastating disease. On a sunny December morning, we sat across from each other at my dining table, his cane resting by his leg. Larry’s first memory of the illness was strikingly similar to Mary Patt’s. “We were visiting family in Elk Grove,” he said. “I sat on the ground to play with younger family members, then couldn’t get back up.” His legs were too weak to hold him. He was quickly diagnosed with polio and admitted to the isolation wing at Mercy Hospital in Sacramento. “The only time I could see my family was through a window. They would be outside on the grounds and would wave to me.” The accepted treatment for polio was to immobilize the affected limbs. This therapy was later abandoned thanks to Sister Elizabeth Kenny, an Australian nurse who introduced a technique using hot packs and muscle strengthening exercises. The medical field did not immediately accept her methods, but they proved effective. Mary Patt still recalls the screams of children being treated with the scalding hot blankets, and up to a few years ago, Larry would awake each morning remembering the scent of those blankets. Polio left Larry atrophied and partly paralyzed on his left side. “My childhood was normal,” he said nonchalantly. “Yes, I was different, the kid who limped, who didn’t have a lot of left side body control. But I did all the things I wanted to do, although,” he admitted with a broad smile, “sliding into second base wasn’t my best idea.” He paused. “The one thing you’ll find in polio victims, almost invariably, is that they are the most determined people you’ll ever meet!” This is certainly true of Mary Patt and Larry. Both are accomplished. They graduated from college, had long and successful careers – Mary Patt as a teacher and Larry working in the printing business, traveling the world. Both married and raised children. Mary Patt proudly proclaimed she had no trouble giving birth to her four children. The only challenge, she exclaimed, was when they ran away. She couldn’t catch them. Not all surprises came from the book. I learned from Larry that polio has not been eradicated. He’s a longtime member of Rotary International, an organization involved for decades in efforts to eradicate the wild polio virus still active in Afghanistan and Pakistan. Smallpox, Larry said, is the only disease that was officially eradicated from the world, vanquished by vaccinations.

A woman wearing a hat with a stuffed rooster atop, pen in hand, working on a memoir, is difficult to take seriously. Beneath the hat was Terry Wicks, perpetual winner of the Gold Country Writer’s “Best Hat Contest” – a fun side event to the annual 100-word story contest where the audience doffs their hats to the winner. I was a runner-up to the rooster despite wearing a fetching fascinator, a hat style typically worn by British Royalty, loaned to me by my friend Helene. Terry was reminding me I had never attended the yearly writers’ retreat at her seven-acre ranch and described this year’s invited speaker and a subject that intrigued me. On the appointed day, off I motored down Interstate 80 to the small town of Penryn. I’d passed the sign many times and often wondered if someone named the town after Penrhyn in Wales but dropped the ‘h.’ At Terry’s ranch, a woman who you’d want on your side in a bar fight muscled a large umbrella behind the speaker’s table. The afternoon sun was scorching, and I moved a folding chair from one of the neat rows and positioned it under the moving shade of a crab apple tree. Monica Gillman Gavia made her way to stand behind the speaker’s table and the small stacks of her historical fiction book titled Strangers and Sojourners in a Town Called Penryn – Adeline. Monica was soft-spoken, and I was so intent on finding shade that I was practically out of earshot, but what I could hear fascinated me. I invited Monica to meet me for coffee the following week at Depoe Bay in Auburn. As so often happens in writing, one road can lead you onto an entirely different path. Such was the case for Monica. The subject of her first book was to be a history of Griffith Griffith, the Welsh immigrant who founded the town of Penryn. (Aha! Was he the one who dropped the “h” from Penrhyn, his hometown in Wales?). While deep in her research, Monica recalled a childhood encounter with Lucy, an elderly neighbor. Young Monica listened transfixed while Lucy told the story of an 8-year-old slave girl named Adeline, whose owners sent her across the country in a covered wagon from Mississippi to Stewart’s Flat, later renamed Penryn. The memory reignited Monica’s imagination. Griffith Griffith was abandoned. Her book would now be Adeline. For five years, Monica dug through the Placer County archives and census records (thankfully, now available online). She dived into the marriage license records and land ownership of the two white families connected to Adeline. She mailed questionnaires to older people in the community requesting an interview. Even those who didn’t want to be interviewed were considerate enough to return the questionnaire. When it came time to self-publish, Monica chose an unconventional style, leaving her name out of the interior pages and widely spacing the text. “The first printing,” said Monica, “came out all messed up. I thought double spacing would make it easier to read. I also didn’t include my research references because I purposely changed the names of the main characters. The relatives of the two families featured in the book may still have family in the surrounding areas, although none responded to my inquiries. They may not have known anything about their great grandparents or extended family." I was also curious about the excerpts from Scripture that preceded each chapter. “Weren’t you concerned,” I asked, “that inserting these passages would distract some readers? They surprised me.” “That’s part of who I am,” Monica said. “I tried to select Scripture passages that connected with the theme of the chapters.” Monica also wove slave dialect into her story. I don’t like to decipher when I read. But this time, I didn’t skip the dialogue. I found it enhanced the character of Adeline. I could hear her voice. Sympathize with her. I wondered whether Monica received any negative feedback. She is a white woman, writing about a black slave’s experience. Some might call it cultural appropriation. In the book’s foreward, Monica explained: “... It is not my intention, by relating Adeline's life story, to disparage any person, place, or institution. My only desire is to share her remarkable life story with others.” I recalled that at the conclusion of her presentation at the Penryn ranch, Monica handed out three sheets of paper. One featured a black and white grainy photograph of a young girl, and the other two included excerpts from “Lucy,” Monica’s second book. Lucy was that elderly neighbor, now passed away. She was the daughter of the little slave girl.

Times have changed. Five years ago, you would have found me guzzling Guinness in a Dublin pub, or nibbling cucumber sandwiches in the tearoom at London’s Ritz Hotel, or even sampling amuse-bouche under the shadow of the Eiffel Tower. A week ago, I was dining in Reno. The morning of our departure by train from Colfax to Reno, I parked the car, and Jim and I rounded the corner of the depot and peered through the window of the waiting room. The group huddled inside were our travel companions. I signed up at a senior center anticipating the need for support with excursions and transportation, now that Jim has difficulty walking and used a cane. Besides, I heard about those fun-filled train trips. We joined the overflow crowded into the Visitors’ Center next to the waiting room. I introduced myself to the group leader. I’ll call her Daphne. I learned the original group leader had fallen ill. The advertised “goodie bags and games” were sequestered with her in Placerville. Bang went my vision of a rollicking ride to Reno. Daphne handed me a bottle of water. Above the din, I heard a familiar voice. Swend Miller? We hadn’t seen Swend in years. He’s the archives director for the Colfax Area Historical Society. He and his lovely wife, Chris, are longtime volunteers at the Colfax Heritage Museum next to the Visitors’ Center. I mentioned to Swend that I frequently refer to the chili recipe he donated to a Colfax library fundraising cookbook. He included in the recipe an unforgettable notation: “You can experiment with red pepper flakes or some jalapeno peppers, but that way lies madness.” Swend was so entertaining we barely noticed the train was an hour late. I relaxed as the train swayed gently along the tracks. It was too early for heavy snow, but flurries appeared briefly at the Summit. Jim and I looked down at the speeding vehicles on Interstate 80 and smiled. As we exited the train in Reno, Jim, standing behind me, let out a yell. “Pauline, that guy grabbed our suitcase.” He pointed to a burly man on the platform. I hustled over to him. “That’s our suitcase,” I said, pointing to the small burgundy wheeler. “It’s mine,” he shouted. Then he looked down, let go of the handle and ran down the platform, yelling at the train staff that someone had stolen his bag. Outside the Reno depot, I looked around for a taxi. In years past, Jim and I enjoyed the brisk walk after sitting for three hours on the train, but times had changed. We trudged the half mile from the depot to the hotel, stopping every half a block so Jim could rest against a building. With Jim safely settled into the hotel room, I scouted the casino and located The Roxy, one of our favorite restaurants. It was 5:45. “If you get here by six, you’ll be eligible for the specials,” the cheerful Roxy greeter informed me. I speed-walked back to the hotel for Jim, rounded up a couple of people from the group, and we high-tailed back to the restaurant and enjoyed a scrumptious meal. Our second night in Reno mandated dinner at another favorite: The Louis’ Basque Corner restaurant on the corner of Evans and East 4th Street. The traditional Basque food was plentiful and delicious. Seated family style, it’s impossible not to meet and enjoy a conversation with your tablemates. Jim proudly shared the story of our trip to France to locate his Basque grandfather’s home. My recently published collection of Auburn Journal articles, titled “The Last House Before Spain,” features the house on the cover and includes the story of its discovery. The next morning, we learned the train home was on time. On time? For years, I’ve bored passengers with the story of a return trip from Reno with my daughter. On that trip, the train was scheduled to arrive in Reno from Chicago at 9:15 a.m. The evening before, we received a text message. The train wouldn’t arrive until 11 a.m. Next morning, another message. The train was scheduled to arrive in Reno at 3:30 p.m. “Are we still in America?” my daughter quipped. The train eventually arrived at 5 p.m. Not only was the train running late, but it stopped en route for mysterious reasons. We arrived at the Colfax depot at 10:30 p.m.! On this current trip, the train was also not on time. It pulled into the Reno station – ahead of schedule. Times, perhaps, had changed.