My friend said it was hilarious. Brian and I are going to see it. My daughter, Tina, was referring to a friend’s review of the Barbie movie. Although, her friend admitted his wife, who wasn’t born here, missed many of the cultural references. Let’s go to the movies, I said to Jim. It seems lately my husband’s social life has been centered on providing details of our home renovations, completed 17 years ago, to every tradesperson that crosses our threshold. This he does despite my standing behind the person pointing vigorously at my imaginary wristwatch. Jim ignores me. We can have lunch after the movie, I say. Food usually does the trick. I checked my cell, and Barbie was showing at the Regal Cinema in Auburn. Great. They had a morning show that lasted less than two hours. Perfect timing. I parked under a sliver of shade in the crowded cinema parking lot. The whole of Auburn had swarmed to watch Barbie. They had heard the hype, too. Jim and I tottered off toward the box office. A sign directed us to buy tickets at the concession. I pushed open the door. A blast of arctic air greeted us. I was glad that stuffed within the carry-on bag slung over my shoulder was a woolen cardigan next to the bottle of water I was smuggling. Barely visible behind the concession counter was a petite young woman doing her best not to frown. Earlier, I rummaged through my kitchen junk drawer and retrieved four pre-COVID Regal gift cards, generously donated through the years by Mike, my brother-in-law. I handed one to her. Could you see how much is left on this card, I asked. She managed a smile. Fifty dollars, she said. That’s great, I said, having expected much less. Following the purchase of two tickets, one giant "small" Dr Pepper (remember, I had water), and two popcorns – one buttered – my windfall quickly reduced to $11. Choose your seats, the young woman said, pointing to a small monitor. I hear her say the blue squares are occupied; the gray are open. Wow, I thought, looking at the sea of blue, the town of Auburn really was up for Barbie. There were only six gray squares. I called out two numbers in the middle of the theater, halfway back. Those seats are broken, she said. What? I thought but didn’t say since this poor girl was not only selling tickets but pouring drinks and popping popcorn. How about – and I called out two more seat numbers. Occupied, she said. “What?” I said – this time out loud. The blues are open, she gently corrected, displaying patience far beyond her pay grade. The grays are not. We selected our seats. Inside the dimly lit theater, the occupants were one couple snuggling in the nosebleed section, and another sprawled in the front row. What’s the number of our seats, Jim whispered. He was serious. Thankfully, we arrived early enough to scale the 84 steps to our seats. We were immediately blasted by advertisements and trailers that continued for at least 20 minutes. Jim kept throwing me a sideways glance. He’s regretting this, I thought. Wait ‘till he discovers that I’ve polished off half the bag of his buttered popcorn. **Spoiler Alert! This paragraph discusses the opening shot of the movie** The film began with a sweet scene. Little girls playing with their baby dolls, pushing prams, pretend-feeding and bathing them. Then a giant pair of long, slim legs appear and the camera pans skyward to reveal a tall, slender but shapely, light-skinned, blond-haired, blue-eyed representation of female perfection. Barbie. The little girls smash their baby dolls to pieces and throw them up in the air. OK, this is not what I expected. Following the movie, I treated Jim to a delicious lunch at the Monkey Cat Restaurant. Once home, I called Tina. Did you see my text? I asked. She giggled. I had texted that Jim said the movie was the worst he’d ever seen – I followed his quote with an emoji crying laughing. Dad never likes any movie I recommend, she said, amused. I told her I thought the film was funny in parts but not worthy of the media frenzy, although, during the movie, I heard the couple in the back row cracking up at parts that didn’t strike me as particularly hilarious. The movie is full of cultural satire, my daughter said, that’s part of the appeal. For example, the opening is mocking 2001: A Space Odyssey. Really, I said. I didn’t get any of them. Tina and I chatted about her first Barbie. I loved my doll, she said, because her skin was darker, like yours, and she had dark hair. I swallowed a lump in my throat. I still have her somewhere, she said. Those sweet words were worth the price of admission. And missing the cultural references didn’t seem to matter.

Not possible. Not the gentle man who sat for hours, year after year, quietly listening as children whispered their dreams. But it was true. Santa, aka David Paul Malloy, had died. He was the man who, when he wasn’t waving to the cheering children during the Colfax Winterfest parade, was riding and restoring Classic Vincent motorcycles. On the second Saturday in June, a summer day that couldn’t make up its mind whether to rain or shine, I drove my husband and friend, Penelope, to The Wheelhouse in Nevada City to celebrate Dave’s life. We arrived early and wandered through the restaurant to the back patio. Erected on the lawn was an imposing banner, flanked by two shiny Vincent motorcycles. The banner bore the letters HRD and the words Vincent Owners Club – Northern California Section. I learned HRD were the initials of British pilot Howard Raymond Davies, who while languishing in a 1917 German prisoner of war camp, conceived of building his own motorcycle, and eventually did so. The threatened rain began to fall. The event host, Don Molloy – Dave’s only sibling – squeezed under a portable cover in front of the Bob Woods Band and welcomed the crowd clustered under dripping tree limbs and bobbing umbrellas. He spoke fondly of his brother, and when the rain showed no sign of stopping, encouraged everyone to move inside. Three others joined Pene, Jim and me at a table in the corner. Friends Mo and Jeff drove down from their lofty hideaway in Eagleville. Another friend, Jimmy J., was on the loose from Alta while his wife, Heidi, vacationed in Rome. I met Heidi years earlier when we were members of the Friends of the Colfax Library. Back then, President Heidi organized the annual Colfax Santa’s Village, the place where I first met Dave. For a long time, I didn’t know Dave’s name. Everyone referred to him reverentially as Santa.

I heard a muffled clang when I climbed into my car last week and casually tossed what was in my hand onto the passenger seat. What the …? I’d walked out of the café with a stainless steel knife and fork! I gave a furtive look around, then slowly backed out of the parking space, too ashamed to return the utensils. Pauline, a voice said, take them back. Inside the café, the pleasant curly haired chap who served me lunch was cleaning the glass patio door. He stopped, gave one of those “V” signs with his fingers where he pointed at his own eyes, then at me, and smiled. “I see you, Pauline,” he said. How did he know my name? Oh, yes, he’d written my lunch ticket. I gave him a tight smile and handed over the cutlery to the young woman behind the counter with an “I’m sorry.” She gave me a look typically reserved for mental patients. “No problem,” she replied, reaching for a slip of paper. My lunch ticket? I saw her scribble something. She’s put an asterisk by my name, I thought. I’m now on the Restaurant Watch List! At home, I wracked my brain wondering how I could have done what I did. People walk out of restaurants all the time with things. I knew that. But they were small things, in tiny paper packets – not place settings! I clicked on the computer. I needed to sort this out. My eldest son, Dean, has a doctorate degree, so he’s certifiably clever. If he has a health question, he goes to a primary source – the Mayo Clinic. I tapped in the URL. Up popped these reassuring words: When You Need Answers, You Know Where to Go. I typed in “forgetfulness,” although I wasn’t sure that was an accurate symptom. The knife and fork I’d scarpered with were unused. I’d ordered soup. A list of headings appeared on the website. At the top – The Study of Nasal Insulin in the Fight Against Forgetfulness (SNIFF). Clever acronym. I’d check that out later. Vitamin Deficiency Anemia – Symptoms and Causes. Another study to study. Drugs and their side effects followed. I don’t take any medication. A term appeared I could understand: Behavioral Neurology. I recited aloud the list of symptoms: aggressive behavior, confusion, delusions, disorientation, forgetfulness, hallucinations, language difficulties, memory loss, personality and behavior changes, poor judgment, poor problem-solving abilities, and a tendency to get lost.

Who, you might ask, are Ms. Ngozi Fulani and Lady Susan Hussey? You’re forgiven if you don’t recall the names, or their verbal exchange at Buckingham Palace in November when the good Lady Susan dropped a royal clanger, or two, or six. ​ The event in question was a reception to combat violence against women organized by the Queen Consort, Camilla, wife of King Charles. Ms. Fulani was there representing her British charity, Sistah Space, which provides domestic abuse services for women and girls of African heritage. Lady Susan was helping to host, as she often did with events held at Buckingham Palace. M’Lady, the youngest daughter of the 12th Earl of Waldegrave, served as Woman of the Bedchamber to the late Queen Elizabeth II. You can imagine her duties. Lady Susan’s nickname within royal circles was Number One Head Girl, a reference to a female student in the top leadership position. ​ Lady Susan, as reported by Ms. Fulani, may have singled her out among the packed room of 300 guests because of her appearance. Ms. Fulani had tied a red, gold and green headband around her long dreadlocked hair, and around her neck she wore a string of cowrie shells that represent protective powers among many African tribes. Curious to read Ms. Fulani’s name badge, Lady Susan reached forward and moved Ms. Fulani’s dreadlocks aside. ​ OK. Now, Woman of the Bedchamber and Head Girl, you don’t touch the hair of a complete stranger, even if that very hand touched a queen. Following that faux pas, Lady Susan, according to Ms. Fulani, asked her where she was from, not once, not twice but six different ways, despite Ms. Fulani’s repeated response that she was British, born in Hackney, a London borough six miles from Buckingham Palace.

I returned recently from a brief holiday. My first visit to Washington state. Our daughter, Tina, lured us there. She and her husband have become exuberant campers since they purchased an ultra-light Alto trailer that didn’t require her dad’s F350 truck to tow. Tina first visited the Washington campsite a few years ago and was so enchanted with the area she pledged to return and drag her parents with her. “It’s on the Washington coast at the mouth of the Colombia River,” she explained. “You’ll love it. Don’t let the name put you off.” “You’re kidding,” I said. “Cape Disappointment?” Blame the name on Captain John Meares, an English fur trader who was disappointed he hadn’t found the Columbia River. As surprised as I was by the campsite name, I was more surprised by the name of the town where she suggested we stay. These days, my idea of camping is to flop into a folding chair and bolt back to the comfort of a hotel when the bugs start biting. “The town’s called Ilwaco – pronounced ‘ill wacko,’ ” Tina said. “We checked the pronunciation with the locals so we wouldn’t insult them.” So we have Cape Disappointment close to Ilwaco. “Wonder how Ilwaco got its name?” I asked my husband, Jim. I researched and reported to him Chief Comcomly, of the Chinook Tribe, named the town for his son-in-law. “His name,” I said, as seriously as I could, “was Elwahko Jim.” “Say no more,” as they say in England. “Mother,” my daughter began one morning as I sat, bottomed out, in her favorite gravity campsite chair, “why don’t you join us on a hike this morning?” “Us” included two grandchildren under 10 and her son-in-law, who recently placed in a Texas Ironman competition. “It’s a short trail that leads up to The Lewis and Clark Interpretative Center with a terrific view of the Pacific Ocean,” my daughter said. “Leads UP to,” I whispered to myself. At home, I walk every day, but the hikes are rarely steep. But my daughter didn’t say steep, did she? She should have. The Ironman, the two iron boys and my daughter skipped merrily up the vertical trail. I plastered on a smile that gradually morphed into a grimace. “I have to stop for a minute,” I wheezed at my daughter’s back, three minutes up the trail. “Sorry mom,” she said, “Let me help.” Tossing pride aside, I gripped her hand. She hauled me up, pointing out rocks and roots she knew upended me on less strenuous walks back home. The effort was worth it. I knew very little about the Corps of Discovery Expedition, led by Meriwether Lewis and William Clark, other than a group travelled an unchartered course from America’s east to the west coast. I wandered through the Interpretative Center reading the large wall panels and admiring the photographs and paintings that chronicled the group’s trail. What a journey. For two years, beginning in 1804, 33 explorers travelled more than 8,000 miles, mostly by boat, often on foot and occasionally on horses supplied by Native Americans. I was pleased the group included a Shoshone Native American woman, Sacagawea, and York, a Black man – albeit a slave. Seventeen-year-old Sacagawea, in particular, contributed to the success of the mission. She assisted her French-Canadian husband, Toussaint Charbonneau, the group’s interpreter – her infant son, Jean Baptiste, secured to her back. Sacagawea, Captain Clark wrote, “… reconciles all the Indians to our friendly intentions. A woman with a party of men is a token of peace.” When she was 12 years old, the Hidatsa, an enemy tribe, kidnapped Sacagawea. During the expedition, she discovered something. Upon meeting with the Shoshone, she realized the Tribe’s chief, Cameahwait, was her long-lost brother. She wept with joy. As awed as I was by the bravery of the explorers, I was mindful that many American Indians know the assistance their ancestors provided the expedition ensured its success, which then opened the west, ultimately to the detriment of America’s indigenous people. The Corps of Discovery Expedition returned home in 1806. President Thomas Jefferson, who initiated the expedition, wrote of his “unspeakable joy” upon hearing from Captain Lewis about the group’s safe return. Except for one man, who died from a burst appendix, all returned home having survived brutal weather, illness and accidents – including Captain Lewis getting shot in the buttocks by one of his own men. And, in their spare time, they documented 178 previously unknown species of plants and 122 new animals. The president’s one disappointment may have been that the list of new animals did not include the wooly mammoth he believed still roamed America’s northwest.