As we celebrate our nation’s 246th year of independence, let’s not forget those who are currently fighting and dying for their freedom. The flag is as recognizable to me now as the Union Jack and Stars and Stripes. It is, of course, the Ukrainian flag with its simple bands of blue and gold – blue for the sky above and gold below, representing the wheat fields of the “breadbasket of the world.” My neighbor, Pene, hoisted this flag outside her home next to a winding two-lane road in Meadow Vista. Her grandson made the stand, she told me, proudly. The flag prompted me to call Pene. Is she flying the flag to show solidarity with Ukraine, as so many are? Of course, but she has more direct ties. Her son, Geoff, is married to Mila, a Ukrainian. When Pene and I spoke, the couple was living in Poland, a country that borders Ukraine. They moved there from the U.S. to be closer to Mila’s family. Pene suggested I speak directly to Geoff to get answers to questions about life so close to the conflict. It was 9:30 a.m. in California and 6:30 p.m. in Poland when two good-looking faces popped up on my Zoom call. Mila snuggled close to Geoff, and would occasionally lay her head on his shoulder. Geoff’s connection to Ukraine began in 2016. Divorced, with five adult children, he joined the Peace Corps, a goal his mother aspired to before marriage and family took her on a path to teaching. Geoff was first assigned to Chernihiv, in northern Ukraine, to complete language and cultural training, then to Dubno, in the west, to complete his service. It was there he met Mila. I asked Pene if Geoff’s adventurous spirit surprised her. “Nothing he does surprises me,” she said, and laughed, in a good way. Geoff, she said, was always independent, self-motivated and once involved is totally committed. Geoff returned to the U.S. with Mila and was in Washington state at 7 p.m. on Feb. 24 when Mila heard the news of Russia President Vladimir Putin’s so-called “Special Operation” – Russia’s unprovoked attack on Ukraine. Mila frantically called her family to plead with them to leave Ukraine for the safety of Poland. It was Mila’s call, from 6,000 miles away in America, that alerted her mother, sister’s family and Mila’s son, Vova, to the invasion of their country. Their response? They were not leaving. You are panicking, they told her. “They were angry with me for being so insistent,” she said. For weeks, she cried and lost weight. Every time Mila called her son, sirens wailed in the background. “He would try to cheer ME up,” she added. “He texted me pictures of kittens.” Two days after the invasion, the Ukrainian government declared Martial Law and closed the borders. Mila’s mention of sirens reminded me of my mother’s experience living in London during the Nazi bombing raids in World War II. Decades later, during thunderstorms, my mother would disappear into the room under the stairs known as the gas cupboard – so named because it housed the gas meter and main pipes. I was a clueless kid, but even I knew she was pushing her luck each time she struck a match to light her Woodbine cigarette. Mila’s family seemed to be pushing their luck by remaining in Ukraine. But as Geoff explained, the Ukrainian people have such a strong connection to their land and families that many are unwilling to leave, even as the war rages around them. Three days after our Zoom meeting, Geoff and Mila moved from Poland to Dubno to be nearer to Mila’s family. Dubno was struck by missiles in the early days of the war and remains on alert. When Mila asked her 17-year-old niece how these missile warnings make her feel, the young woman responded that at first she cried a lot. But now, when they end, she just feels happy to be alive. I asked Geoff what he and Mila plan to do in Ukraine. Both are highly educated. Geoff has degrees in various disciplines, and Mila is a college professor and recently certified as a medical interpreter in English, Ukrainian and Russian. “She’s extraordinarily brilliant,” Geoff said, giving a proud glance over his shoulder. Geoff is thinking beyond the war and how he can utilize his background in environmental management for reconstruction of infrastructure demolished during the invasion. Projects such as these lend themselves to community involvement, and we discussed a future American sister-city relationship with Dubno – an idea I’d actively support. During the early weeks of the war, Geoff said, it was valuable to get necessities like clothing, blankets and personal items into Ukraine. Now, it’s important to donate to organizations that have systems in place like UN Crisis Relief, UNICEF and the World Health Organization, to help refugees and internally displaced people evacuated from eastern Ukraine. This sentiment of ongoing support was eloquently expressed by New Zealand’s Prime Minister, Jacinda Ardern. During an interview with talk-show host Stephen Colbert, Ardern shared a conversation she had with Ukraine’s President Zelensky. She lamented how dwarfed her contribution from a country of 5 million people seemed, considering the magnitude of what was happening. The Ukrainian president responded that, “It’s not about small, and it’s not about big. It’s those who react, and those who don’t, and you have reacted.” The New Zealand PM added her own words: “... It’s about values … standing together, showing that it’s not a conflict that we are going to have happen in the shadows. … We’ll speak up and speak against it and stand together until it ends.”

“Did anyone make racists comments to you when we lived there?” I was talking to my adult son on the phone after reading articles about racist incidents in the Elk Grove School District. Our family lived in Elk Grove for more than 20 years. My first home there was on 10 dry acres with a weather-worn country barn large enough to stable our daughter’s horse, Raven, and the mare’s feed. I’d grown up in a small town in England with houses clustered together, most sharing a wall. I was proud I owned 10 acres and a barn. Felt like lady of the manor. When our daughter graduated from riding her horse to tearing around in an orange Firebird, we moved to a house in a court with three times the square footage on half the acreage. The realtor, who managed the purchase of the house, lived nearby. Shortly after we moved in, she arrived at the front door carrying a potted plant – a housewarming gift. Before she turned to leave, she said, matter-of-factly, that she wondered what our next-door neighbor would say about us moving in. I didn’t respond – my usual reaction to remarks that bewilder me. When the penny dropped a few minutes later, I realized she was referring to my skin color. This was 1980, before Elk Grove city’s incorporation, and subsequent population explosion, when I was one of the few in the area with brown skin. I chafed at the insinuation I was an undesirable addition to the neighborhood. After all. I was English. The referenced next-door neighbor, a descendant of Oklahoma dustbowl migrants who proudly referred to himself as an “Okie,” kept any racists tendencies hidden. Our families became friends. Our youngest son, to whom I posed the racism question, was born in Elk Grove and went to school there. He has darker skin than his siblings and looks more like me than his white father. He answered my question matter-of-factly. “Some of the older siblings of my white friends used racist language around me,” he said, “and then they’d add, ‘but you’re different.’ ” An insult meant as a compliment. “Some kids called me an Oreo,” he said nonchalantly. I felt my stomach knot. I’d recently learned the name is a derogatory term for a Black person who’s accused of “acting white" – ridiculing those who don’t fit the Black stereotype. “Why didn’t you tell us?” I asked him. He chuckled. We both knew he was too reserved to have done that. And then I thought about another Oreo, our sweet black and white border collie. Long gone. Was our son tortured every time we called the dog? Elk Grove memories surfaced again weeks later when I came across a photograph of our son with a young girl who he escorted to a prom. I remembered that evening. A car sputtered up our long driveway. Out spilled the girl’s mother and father, sister and grandmother. They were chattering and smiling and waving cameras. The girl and our son posed on the front steps outside our huge double doors. The girl linked her arm through our son’s and tossed her blonde hair. I knew little about the girl other than she lived in a trailer park. I’d only seen her twice and had never had a conversation with her. I’m ashamed to admit this, but I didn’t think she was good enough for our bright, handsome kid. In the English country town where I grew up, racial prejudice existed, but with few non-whites in the community, overt incidents were rare. What there was, however, was an “Upstairs, Downstairs,” class mentality. Birthright, education, a regional accent – all pointed to how a person was categorized and treated. According to the greatbritishmag.com website, the British are still grouped into five class systems: Low, Working, Middle, Upper and Aristocrats. I was born into the working class. Today, I would be considered middle class – elevated by a college degree and white-collar profession. Looking at the photograph of the young blonde girl, and learning later from our son what a difficult life she and her family had, I was mortified by my own prejudices. How many of us prejudge others based on how they differ from us in skin color, eye shape, accent, economic status? Our realtor assumed our Southern neighbor was racist, perhaps a prejudice of her own. Some white Elk Grove kids judged my son. I judged a young girl because she lived in a trailer park and her family’s car backfired in our driveway. And this from me, a person who grew up so poor she put cardboard in her shoes to keep her feet dry. “Get off your high horse,” my mother used to say whenever I became judgmental. These days, hopefully, I’m off more times than I’m on.

“On your bike” is a phrase you’ll recognize if you have an Irish connection. And you’ll know it’s not a question, but an invitation to “buzz off,” if you’re American, or “bugger off,” if you’re British. I’d heard this phrase from my Irish mother but never saw it in writing until I read “Good Eggs,” a debut novel by Rebecca Hardiman. I laughed so much I read it again. In Hardiman’s book, her character, Millie, a shoplifting 83-year-old Irishwoman, is anticipating a getaway. “She’ll be on her bike. So to speak,” writes Hardiman, after Millie calls a taxi. One woman who doesn’t need to be told to get on her bike is Carol Maynard. Sitting with my back to the door at Grandma C’s café in Colfax, I was distracted from licking chocolate off my lips by a clickety clack. Someone entering the café in their tap shoes? I turned and recognized Carol, clad from the kneecaps up in skintight cycling Lycra. We exchanged greetings. She grabbed a coffee and off she tapped. I’d driven past Carol on her bicycle several times and was curious why a woman, who I assumed was retirement age, was brave enough to ride a bike on an American road. Growing up in England, it was common to see adults riding bicycles for transportation. My stepfather, Sid, an accounting clerk, folded the cuffs of his suit trousers with bike clips and rode to work at Whitworth’s – flour millers since 1886 – each day, rain or shine. A close American relative, who shall remain anonymous, assumes an adult riding a bike either can’t afford a car or they have a drinking problem. Neither case applied to Carol. I found this out when I called and invited her for coffee. I first met Carol at the home of her brother-in-law, Mike Lorang. He and Carol’s sister, JoAnn, are owners of Lorang Brothers Construction in Colfax, where my husband worked before his retirement. Mike and his family welcomed us to the area when we moved from Elk Grove almost two decades ago. I was reminded again of their kindness when Mike and his daughter, also named Carol and manager of the company, showed up to haul a paddleboat out of our lake following a heavy rainstorm when Jim and I were unable to do so. Mike, who’s close to my husband’s age, bounded into the boat and began bailing the water that threatened to sink the craft. Carol waded waist deep beside the boat and joined in the bailing. I shared that story with Carol as we sunned ourselves at an outdoor table at The Local Café in Meadow Vista. It impressed me to learn Carol is president of the Sierra Foothills Cycling Club. She eagerly provided information about the club. We have rides every day of the week, except Monday, said Carol. The rides are typically in the sierra foothills, and in and around Auburn. There’s a designated leader for each ride who plans the route and makes sure everyone is present and accounted for. I learned the club has a website: http://sfcyclists.com that describes the daily rides. The annual membership is $20 and includes discounts at several bike shops. All levels are welcome. It surprised me that exercise isn’t Carol’s primary reason for cycling. I enjoy the social side, she said. We have a variety of events – Christmas party, fall picnic, and coming up June 20-24th, the annual summer camp – this year in Bishop in the Eastern Sierras. I haven’t ridden a bike since I was a teenager. My friend, Joy, and I would race each other home from the shoe factory, our tight skirts hiked up beyond a decent level. The soles of our stiletto heels would slide off the wet pedals. That wouldn’t happen to Carol. That tap dancing I heard in the café was cleats, not the soccer type but those that clip the foot in place, ensuring a more efficient peddle stroke. My anonymous relative who disdained bike riders should know there was a time in history when the driver of a car couldn’t have been more grateful to see one. The place was France, and the year was 1908. Contestants from six countries battled bone-chilling weather, terrible roads and physical exhaustion, competing in the automobile race from New York to Paris. The American car, the Thomas Flyer, arrived in Paris only to be stopped by a gendarme, short of the finishing line. The car had only one headlight. A passing cyclist offered his lamp but then couldn’t unbolt it. The Americans hoisted the bike onto the hood of the Thomas Flyer, proceeded to the finish line at the Eiffel Tower, and declared the winner. So, those of you who can, take the advice of author Hardiman, and “Get on your bike.” Literally.

I learned the finer points of American football decades ago in the cramped space of a South Sacramento apartment complex known as “Sin city” – unmarried tenants allowed. My boyfriend, Jim, rolled several pairs of his thick socks into a ball – bent over – directed me and my two young children, recent arrivals from England, to stand behind him. He flipped the sock ball between his legs. That’s called a hike, he said. Over the years, I’ve watched football with now-husband Jim, more often back in the San Francisco 49ers’ golden years when Joe Montana was quarterback and Jerry Rice the wide receiver. My husband is also a Green Bay Packers fan, mostly out of solidarity with his ex-Air Force buddy Ed, who lives in Indiana. The recent game at Lambeau Field between the Packers and 49ers presented a dilemma: I’d quickly lose interest in American football, familiar as I was with the constant movement in British football. American players spend too much time standing around, or bent over, I’d complain. Recently, I’ve focused on other aspects of the game. I notice and appreciate when players create a path for other players to score. I praise the clean tackles that go for the legs and trip up the runner. Reminds me of the lion who leaps forward and takes down his prey with his two front paws. I critique some plays. Why would the quarterback pass the ball to a player whose only opening is into a wall of muscle? I protest out loud when a player knocks a caught football out of the hands of another. And by the way, do they have to hit each other so hard? I cover my eyes on those replays. My husband wanted to play football in high school – players got all the cute girls. His parents nixed that, fearful he’d get hurt. So Jim spent his teenage years driving a 1966 Chevelle Super Sport, testing how fast the 396 could go. He spent four years in the Air Force working inside the fuel tanks of B-52 bombers and F-4 fighter jets. The instructor, Jim told me, reminded new recruits – and this is almost a quote – You guys that have the habit of scratching your bottoms (I said almost a quote) had better break it quick. You’ll be inside a tank just emptied of JP-4 fuel. One spark and there’ll be no bottom to scratch and no arm to scratch it with. That’s the talk the character in a movie I just watched would appreciate. Jeff Bridges, one of my favorite actors, portrayed a sardonic Texas Ranger in the film Hell or High Water. Lolling on a seedy hotel bed, flipping through TV channels while waiting for the bad guys, he paused on a British football game. Soccer, Bridges says to his Texas Ranger partner, never understood that – anything a 5-year-old can do isn’t a sport. Who invented it? Well, Mr. Bridges, the British did, around the Middle Ages. This according to Uri Friedman in a June 13, 2014, online article in The Atlantic. Friedman’s quoting from a published paper by Stefan Szymanski, a sports economist at the University of Michigan. Szymanski wrote that in 1863, leaders of a dozen clubs met in London and formed a Football Association – later named Association Football. In 1871, another group of clubs met to create a version of the game where you could use your hands, which became known as Rugby Football. Writes Szymanski, “The rugby football game was shorted to ‘rugger,’ and the association football was shortened to ‘soccer.” For decades, the British used the term ‘soccer football.’ It was only in the 1980s the British stopped using the term. The Yanks had taken it over to differentiate it from American football, as soccer became more popular over here. But it hasn’t been a one-way trip across the Atlantic. American football has become hugely popular in England, where the NFL has competed in sold-out games in London’s Wembley Stadium. It didn’t surprise me the British embraced the sport. I’m convinced that now that Great Britain has ditched the European Union, next stop – the 51st state. You read it here first.

I’ve aged 10 years in a week. I blame the weather. Like residents east and west of the Sierra mountains, we’ve suffered a deluge of rain and snow, mostly snow. Trees stressed by droughts and now top-heavy with snow felled PG&E lines, leaving thousands without power. Following last year’s power outages, we deprived our kids of their inheritance to purchase a mega-standby generator. It fires up the second the power goes out. The generator worked perfectly, except at night. It was LOUD! “We should be able to turn it off, “I whined to my husband, who apparently didn’t hear me above the football game, cranked to maximum decibels. I dug out the generator’s operation manual. Under the heading, “Shutting Generator Down While Under Load or During a Utility Outage” was a triangle with an exclamation mark and the word DANGER. I felt a twinge under my left eye. A companion bag was forming. The manual directions cautioned “avoid equipment damage … follow steps below.” I read the list, flipped to the pages that identified the generator’s internal organs. Where was the “Main utility disconnect?” – the first step in shutting down the generator? I was at the kitchen table when I felt another twinge – this time under my right eye. Jim was in the living room cheering an interception. I gave up on the manual. Bedtime. The generator was louder with the TV off. I’d plug my ears. ENT specialists have told me I have narrow tubes that require getting my ears sand-blasted every six months. This anomaly prevents insertion of standard ear plugs. Decades ago, I purchased custom-made ear plugs. They worked beautifully. I found them. The once-pliable plugs were as hard as granite. I jammed two small cotton balls into each ear and placed a pillow over my head. I could still hear the generator. Maybe music would muffle the sound. I clicked on the bedside lamp and blew dust off the top of the clock radio. The plastic switch offered four choices: on, off, alarm and music. I slid the control back and forth. An ear-splitting rendition of “Silent Night” blasted into the room. Ears plugged, radio low enough I could sleep yet loud enough to muffle the generator. I cheerfully plopped my head on the pillow. Out popped two cotton balls. I awoke every hour. On the one hand, I was immensely grateful we had power. How many of my neighbors were out there freezing? No heat, no water if they were on a well. No way to offer help with phone lines down and ice-covered vertical driveways. Here I was, snug in my electric-blanket-heated bed, polluting the atmosphere with generator exhaust, probably ticking off the neighbors with the noise, and moaning about not being able to sleep. Chris, the generator installer, returned my call about shutting down the generator. The manual, he says, pointedly, states the generator should be shut down after each 24-hour operation, to cool. And, it will save fuel. Check the oil, too. How do I shut it down? A pause. You lift the lid. You’ll see a red “Off” light. Press that. It’s 7 o’clock, our new bedtime. Pitch black outside. Our house is built on the side of a hill. Very picturesque. The downside? The propane tank, the HVAC and the generator are installed on a slope. Jim has difficulty walking. Down the treacherously icy slope I slide. Generator off, I step tightrope-style across to the propane tank. I gasp. The gauge needle is below the red zone – one husband shower away from empty. As I heave myself upward, I silently praise two lovely people who have assisted my fitness: inspirational yoga teacher Suzanne Grace and Hazel Haase, fearless leader of the New Comers and Neighbors hiking group. A blissful night’s sleep awaits. Day six. Still no PG&E power. Time to turn on the generator. Chris said to check the oil. Do I pour the oil into the dipstick tube? I call Chris, who probably has me blocked. Left a message. He calls back just as I don my climbing boots. Now, only use about one-eighth of the quart, he warns. Do not overfill. I swallow a lump. I planned on pouring in a quart. Do I pour it into the dipstick place, I squeak? A pause. I imagine him thinking, “Speaking of dips.” No, he says, his voice alarmingly calm. After you lift the lid, pull up the side of the generator. It will come up easily (Not!). You’ll see an orange plastic cap to the right of the dipstick. Unscrew that and pour in a little oil, then check the dipstick. Done! I press the green “On” light. The motor coughs and rumbles into action. Music to my sand-blasted ears.