In the basement storage cupboard, tucked behind the folding chairs with cup holders, and the unused golf clubs and tennis racquets, were two sets of snowshoes. It was December, my daughter Tina’s birthday month. A snowshoe trip for two. I found a snowshoe clinic online that advertised customers could “set their own pace,” and offered lunch. Besides sharing a day with my daughter, I hoped the class would inspire me to get more use out of the snowshoes I purchased years ago and used twice. Tina was excited to join me. When I made the reservations, John, the instructor, offered me either an 8:30 a.m. or 11:30 a.m. session. Tina and I snorted at the 8:30 a.m. time. John called me as our train pulled into the Reno station. His schedule had changed. The 11:30 was out. He’d pick us up at 8:30. John looked every bit the outdoor adventure type – Nordic features, fading tan, muscular – although he was carrying more weight than I expected – All the better to piggyback me down the mountain. He nodded a polite hello to me. His face lit up when he spied Tina. My daughter, in her early 40s, is the only person I know who can look attractive first thing in the morning wearing a woolen snow cap with false pigtails. John informed us he was picking up a group of snowmobilers and Tina and I would ride with his partner, Darren. A soft snow was falling when we arrived just above North Star in Lake Tahoe. Darren pulled up beside John’s minibus packed to the headliner with middle-aged couples wearing super-sized down jackets. There’d be a brief wait, John explained. He needed to organize the snowmobilers. Their rented vehicles were on a schedule. Tina and I exchanged sideways glances. Once the last of the snowmobilers zoomed away at full throttle, John turned his attention to Tina and me. First on the agenda – the advertised “snowshoe clinic.” This presentation comprised John telling us we should always carry a whistle in the outdoors. If people can’t see you, at least they can hear you. Next – carry a shovel in case you need to build a snow cave. That was it? Personally, I would have liked a tad more information if I were actually going to undertake this task. Carry matches or a lighter, too, he cautioned, and pay attention to where the sun is so you can judge your direction of travel. Then we were off. Straight uphill. John had the thighs of a speed skater and took off like a shot, with Tina on his heels. I trudged behind Tina, and Darren followed me. The pace left me breathless. “Sorry,” I said, turning to Darren, “but I have to stop once in a while.” I was wondering what happened to the brochure’s “set your own pace” that lured me to this clinic. Tina and John would occasionally stop and wait for me and Darren. As we reached them, John would immediately race off. At one stop, Tina, noticing her mother’s tongue was hanging out, suggested they wait so I could rest. John frequently checked his watch. When the four of us stopped for lunch, John retrieved a small plastic disc from his backpack and gallantly placed it on a granite rock for me to sit on. I smiled. Maybe he wasn’t such a schmuck. Tina and I looked on expectedly as John unzipped a section of his large backpack. The clinic fee included food and beverages. I was starving and imagined John retrieving a thermos of hot soup, unwrapping sourdough bread sandwiches, maybe potato chips, too – a treat I rarely allowed myself. John fished around in his backpack. Tina and I smiled. He pulled out four bags. What? Trail mix? We sat on our granite perches, nibbling quietly. My kind daughter mentioned there was some tasty stuff mixed in with the nuts and raisins. The guide beamed. He said he had indeed added some extra items. I was glad he wasn’t looking at me. Following “lunch,” John warned us he was upping the pace so he could get down the hill in time to meet his snowmobiling group. Halfway down, he broke into a gallop. Darren, Tina and I almost lost our balance laughing at the sight of this large muscular guy flailing down the hill. Tina mimicked John’s ungainly running technique. Darren got caught up in the fun and gave us his imitation. I was not about to push my luck by following suit. I’d succeeded in my one goal – to remain upright. While the clinic didn’t inspire me to snowshoe more often, I did buy a whistle and shovel.

Seated outside a charming café in Meadow Vista – appropriately named The Local Café – on a sunny October morning was a petite, lovely lady. “Dale,” I yelled much too loudly. “I have to give you a hug.” I flung open my arms, not bothering to ask permission. I would love to call Dale Shuttleworth a friend, but that would be presumptuous. Our meetings have been accidental and brief. But when we bumped into each other at events in Colfax and Auburn, we’d smile across a room, maneuver toward each other and exchange a few words. I learned that Dale and her husband, Alan, were educators, she a reading specialist who taught at several grade levels and retired from Rocklin Unified School District. Alan, also a reading specialist, taught fifth grade and was a school principal in New York and California. Alan retired as superintendent at Colfax Elementary School District. He then became a full-time faculty member at Sierra College and retired in 2019. Both have been active after retirement. Dale is active in the Colfax Soroptimist Club. Alan is a member of the Colfax Lions Club, the County Municipal Advisory Council and the Auburn Assistance League Advisory Council. Add photographer for the city of Colfax Monthly Newsletter to the list. I knew the couple lived in Colfax, and when the devastating River Fire exploded Aug. 4, Dale and Alan were among the people I thought about. I asked a mutual friend, Helene, if she knew if the fire had affected them. Helene’s response was the reason I was so happy to see Dale outside The Local Café. “How are you?” I asked Dale after our hug. “Better,” she said. Shielding her eyes from the sun, she told some of what she and Alan experienced following the River Fire. I stood by her seat, riveted. “Would you be willing to share your experience with others?” I asked. I’d learned a lot and thought others would, too. A minor, but significant fact, was that the jars and boxes sitting on business and community counters, soliciting donations, actually go to those in need. I’ve dropped in a few coins and cynically wondered if the money reaches the stated recipients. In response to my question to Dale, this email from Alan arrived in my in-box the next day: “Our home of 40 years burned to the ground in the Colfax River Fire in August. We survived but lost everything but the clothes we were wearing, the contents of the car we were driving, and our cat, Dottie. “We always knew organizations have a community heart. To receive help from them directly showed us the size of their hearts. The Red Cross, the Auburn Chamber of Commerce, the Dutch Flat Community Center, the Colfax Baptist Church, the North American Lutheran Church, Auburn Rotary Club, Colfax “Lions and Colfax Soroptimists all were incredibly generous when we needed a financial and emotional boost. “Whenever you see an opportunity to donate to a philanthropic organization, please give them your support. You will be helping a neighbor down the road. “We also knew individuals care a lot, too, but have been touched by the amount of personal support we have received. Photos lost at the fire show up in our mailbox as friends and family make duplicates from their photo collections. Clothing from friends made it to our temporary residence. Meals donated by friends who live hundreds of miles away were delivered to our doorstep. If you know someone in need, find out what concrete help and support you can offer and make it happen. “Many people simply do not know what to say to us regarding the loss of our house. The best response we have received is outstretched arms, soliciting a hug, with no words necessary. “We also have realized that we are not alone in experiencing a tragedy. Families experience losses completely unrelated to our problem and that is simply a part of the human condition. Maybe our most important lesson learned is that we have to actively support each other. When a friend or family member suffers a trauma, we need to temporarily shelve our own personal issues and do what we can to help our family and friends in their time of need. After all, when all is said and done, we are in this mystery of the universe together and need to help each other through its tribulations.” I wondered how the Shuttleworths were doing now. “We’ve leased a home in Meadow Vista and are happy to still be near to our Colfax friends, wrote Alan. Long-range plans are pretty much on hold for now. We’re considering lots of possibilities and are confident that our path down the road will be positive. We feel a bit like newlyweds starting out fresh.”

Everyone’s leaving. Well, not everyone. I exaggerate when I’m sad. First off was Jeane, our neighbor for more than 15 years. Jeane hosted a meet-up for neighbors shortly after we moved to the foothills from Elk Grove. The event included a music recital held in her dance studio. In the following years, we attended performances by an array of talented artists – recitals on the baby grand, singers, violinists. It was wonderful. It surprised me when Jeane announced she was moving out of state. She’s 80 years old and lived in the same house since the 1970s. Aren’t elders supposed to be afraid of change? Dragged out of their homes kicking and screaming? But I should have known better. Over the years, Jeane shared snippets of her life during our dinners together. I learned more when I volunteered to draft her autobiography. Once a week, I clicked open a rickety wooden gate and crossed the canal that led to Jeane’s back door, careful to dodge the Canada geese droppings. She and I sipped aromatic teas, surrounded by artistic mementos from her world travels. I took notes on a steno pad, enthralled with her tales. After a year, I handed her a rough draft, admitting someone more experienced should weave the transcription into a professional product. The result is her autobiography, Short Stories and Small Miracles. The book’s description captures the variety and breadth of her life, “From New York to the Hollywood stage, from rituals with Native American elders … to Rudolf Steiner’s work in Dornach, Switzerland … to meeting the Dalai Lama …” Our friend was ready for yet another adventure. Not long after Jeane’s departure, other friends announced they were moving to Florida. What? Hadn’t Ron and Sue heard the humor columnist Dave Barry admit Florida was weird? That it was a statistical fact that with 6 percent of the nation’s population, the state produces 57 percent of the nation’s weirdness? We’ve known these neighbors as long as we’ve known Jeane. Sue coaxed me into joining the Friends of the Colfax Library before I’d finished unpacking. She and I got to know each other well during our 10 years on the library board. I was curious why she had difficulty walking and needed a cane but thought it impolite to ask. Sue volunteered the information. She was in a car accident in her early teens. Her mother lost control of the car after turning sharply onto a loose gravel road. The crash threw Sue through the windshield. Miraculously, there were no fatalities, but she suffered injuries that required multiple hip surgeries over the years and the use of crutches for decades. These struggles didn’t impair Sue’s ability to raise a daughter, work for blue chip companies in the San Francisco area and volunteer in her adopted foothill community. It will reduce the weirdness factor in Florida when Sue and her husband, Ron, show up. Two more defectors, I mean friends, are members of one of my writer’s groups. Bill and Barbara moved to Idaho. Married for decades – second marriage for both, with a combined total of 10 children – these two rarely pass each other without a touch or a smile. Shortly after their move, Barbara and Bill contracted COVID. Fortunately, both recovered. They love Idaho, they told me during a Zoom meeting in May. Neighbors are friendly. Customer service is exceptional, and lines are short. They even enjoyed this year’s snow that was deeper than their Grass Valley winters. More recent news from Idaho, though, isn’t as cheery. Since all these friends are around the same age, I’m guessing they didn’t wait for someone else to decide where their next move should be. Two years ago, I thought about returning to England. I imagined buying a thatched cottage in a village outside my hometown. Inside the garden gate, there’d be a plethora of roses, foxgloves and tall hollyhocks. It took just one British movie showing characters bent double against a biting wind and sheets of rain to snap me out of that fantasy. Maybe Canada would work? It’s cold but not as wet. I dropped that idea when a late-night comedian reminded like-minded viewers that perhaps Canada didn’t want us. I’ve pulled myself together. And I often tell people that when I leave my comfortable foothill home, it will be feet first. And when I think about that last move, I’m comforted by the words of British comedian Ricky Gervais, who said, “Being dead is like being stupid. It’s only painful for others.”

The call came. We were in the evacuation warning zone of the River Fire. I wished I’d paid more attention when my hiking friend, Virginia, mentioned she had a go-bag ready. I thought about it, then forgot about it. Now my husband and I were scurrying around, struggling to get the suitcase from a top shelf in the basement. What should I pack? Then I remembered the email from Placer County Supervisor Cindy Gustafson I’d skimmed the day before, meaning to read later. It contained her newsletter: “August is Here.” Immediately visible is a link to a CAL FIRE pamphlet entitled: WILDFIRE IS COMING … ARE YOU READY TO GO! The email arrived one day before the River Fire exploded at the Bear River Campground, fewer than 5 miles from our house. I packed a suitcase. We waited, watched and listened. A KVMR radio station host confirmed evacuation areas, read zone numbers and each street within those zones. Pascale Fusshoeller, editor of yubanet.com, provided real-time fire updates for the station and on the website. I perk up whenever I hear her distinctive accent. On an internet site, I located a map of the River Fire with evacuation zones listed – all in Nevada County. I couldn’t see zones listed for Placer County. Considering these frequent wildfires, shouldn’t all areas have zone numbers we memorize like our zip and area codes? I now know I should have checked the Placer County Sheriff’s website for Placer information. Two days later, the Nevada County Sheriff’s Office lifted the evacuation warning for our area. Now out of danger, I could focus on others. I knew they evacuated some Chicago Park residents. In years past, I volunteered at the Colfax Winterfest as one of Santa’s Elves. Santa had a summer home in Chicago Park. I phoned him. No answer. I phoned a mutual friend, Sharlene, who owned and operated a beauty salon in Colfax for decades. A cheerful voice told me the number was not in service. I contacted another mutual friend, Debbie. Before she and her boyfriend received the all clear to return home, his appendix burst. He was being operated on as she spoke. I’ve learned since they’re both safe at their homes, and he’s recovering well. I located Sharlene, and she invited me to lunch in Colfax at Grandma C’s Kitchen on Main Street. Sharlene and I sat across from each other in the cozy restaurant, relieved neither had to evacuate, and heartsick by the number of homes burned to the ground. Were it not for the swift actions by Placer County Fire Chief Brian Estes, who called in the massive air support, and the heroic firefighters, the River Fire could have been even more catastrophic. What about Santa, I asked Sharlene? He’s joining us, she said. And in he walked – out of uniform. Santa had received an emergency alert, and left his house as ordered. He stayed with his lady friend in Grass Valley. What about Mrs. Claus? She was back home safe in Colfax. Her Facebook post thanked a kind friend who looked after Mittens, her cat, during the evacuation. The day of the fire, our landline rang repeatedly. Cell phones beeped. Emails and Facebook messages flooded in from family and friends offering safe havens and assistance. Callers know we are not as nimble as we used to be. Jim sends me an estimated time of arrival from the basement man cave to our dinner table. I’m lucky if I can bench press a 5-pound bag of ice. Among the emails was one from my well-known yoga teacher, Suzanne Grace. She was on her way home from out of town when she heard news of the fire. Although she was on an August break, she invited her students to an impromptu, complimentary yoga session. Suzanne’s decades of yoga and meditative training calmed her stress, and she wanted the same for her students. The night of the fire, I couldn’t sleep. We were safe for now, but what if the wind changed? I’d read that fires make their own wind. I slid open the bedroom sliding door and stepped out onto the deck. The night sky was surprisingly free of smoke. Among the twinkling stars, there was one moving slowly. A red light blinked. My vision blurred. It was a helicopter. One of our guardian angels.

The question came from my husband, a man who proudly carries a flip phone. Jim was responding to my request that he adjourn to his basement man cave during my podcast interview with Doug Devaney, the British producer-presenter of the “The Plastic Podcasts” – a series of interviews with members of the Irish diaspora. Podcasts, I explained to Jim, are audio broadcasts available to stream over the internet, or download onto computers, phones or tablets to enjoy at a listener’s convenience. Remember a few years ago, I said to Jim, when you pressed your nose against the front window wondering why I was sitting in my car in the driveway. Or the time I tripped over your legs rushing to turn on the radio so I could hear the end of a public radio interview by Terry Gross? Now with NPR’s podcasts, I can listen to Terry’s episodes on my iPad, anytime. When Doug contacted me about being interviewed, I checked him out on the internet. First stop was his podcast www.plasticpodcasts.com. I listened to several of the interviews and was flattered he invited me to join this cadre of accomplished artists. Doug’s a talent in his own right. He’s appeared in award-winning radio programs, is a writer, playwright, actor, TV and radio personality. I also learned that during a local arts festival a few years ago, Doug appeared in a one-man show that became an international news story. I asked him about this. He laughed. The show, “Mein Gutt,” was a comedy about a man battling obesity. Organizers of the festival insisted he alert audiences that a prop chicken would make an appearance. He could offend the vegetarians. A newspaper quoted Doug’s response: “I’ve heard of strobe lighting or nudity being cause for audience concern but never roasted chicken.” Another internet search revealed a photograph of Doug and an actor friend, Karl Greenwood, on horseback, shirtless. After six hours in a makeup chair, Doug was transformed into Donald John Trump, and his friend into Vladimir Vladimirovich Putin. The pair rode around on a horse in London promoting the launch of a political betting platform known as Paddy Power. Very funny, I thought. Doug, a British/Irish guy, is based in Brighton, a resort on the south coast of England. When I was growing up in Britain, going to Brighton for a summer holiday was quite the thing. Our family never went; too many kids and not enough money. But I heard about others going, and they bragged about staying at a Butlin’s Holiday Camp. Billy Butlin built a number of these camps around the country. One of my favorite authors, Bill Bryson, mentioned the camps in his book, “The Road to Little Dribbling.” The United States-born Bryson wrote, “Campers were awakened by a loudspeaker in their room, which they could neither turn off nor turn down, summoned to meals in communal dining halls, harried into taking part in humiliating beauty contests and other competitions, and ordered back to their chalets to be locked in for night at 11 p.m. Butlin invented the prisoner-of-war camp as holiday, and, this being Britain, people loved it.” When I first read what Bryson wrote, I thought, ‘cheeky bugger.’ Then I recalled Bryson has such affection for Britain he’s lived in England for decades and has dual American and British citizenship. Back to the podcasts. During a Zoom meeting, I asked Doug why he got into podcasting. He was, he said, always fascinated with the radio and the spoken word. What advice would he give someone interested in doing their own podcast? Do your research, he said. There’s lots of information on the internet. Decide what you want to talk about. The recording equipment isn’t that expensive. Anyone can download Audacity, the audio editor and recorder, free off the internet. What about ambient noise? Doug held up a portable curved, sound-absorbing shield he purchased. I had recorded an audio version of my memoir in a makeshift recording studio. My dear husband assembled plywood panels around the armoire in our dining room where I house my computer. He covered the panels with horse hair blankets from U-Haul to provide a sound barrier. If a plane flew over, I had to start from scratch. Same when the garbage truck backup bell sounded. Jim flew down to his man cave one morning when the microphone picked up the sound of his rustling newspaper. We unplugged the humming fridge. I forgot to plug it back in one day. And to think I could have avoided all this with a sound-absorbing shield! I almost cried. I told Jim that for a fraction of the price and effort, I could have been all over the internet like a meme. Jim asked, “What’s a meme?” Then he shifted his hip and pulled out his beeping flip phone.