“How about writing an article on ageism,” my hiking friend, Mary, suggested as I puffed my way up a hill on a Tuesday morning Newcomers and Neighbors hike. “I’m frustrated,” she added, “that ageism remains socially acceptable.” Unfortunately, that’s a true statement. Who hasn’t heard the jokes and seen the merchandise that ridicule and demean seniors? Society has made gains to combat the other isms – ableism, racism and sexism – that began by understanding the serious negative effects of these prejudices, and by calling them out. The article was on my mind when a stylish white-haired woman pulled out a chair beside me at a recent Newcomers’ membership drive in Missions Coffee in Auburn. I shared with my new friend Betty I was gathering information for an article and asked if she’d mind telling me her age. Yes, she’d mind, she said sweetly, and didn’t tell me. That surprising response warranted further discussion, and we agreed to meet at the café the following week. Betty was sitting at a corner table when I approached carrying my decaf coffee latte. I learned she was born in Loomis, once owned clothing and antique shops in Auburn, and was currently building a studio to continue her passion for painting animals and landscapes. Still no age reveal. I understood. People consciously or unconsciously make negative assumptions about a person’s worth based on a number. I should know. Three years ago, I applied to fill a vacancy on the board of our local water district along with two others. At the candidate interview meeting, one of the serving board members was notably absent but submitted a memorandum recommending appointment of the youngest of the three applicants and referred to the two others as “… old-timers” and the need for “fresh blood.” I winced at the ageist insult then blurted, “I’m younger than the president!” Everyone laughed. They unanimously appointed me. But the effects of ageism are no laughing matter. The United Nations has recognized this as a serious issue and tasked the World Health Organization with leading The Global Campaign to Combat Ageism – a guide for government policy-makers that envisions “a world in which everyone can live a longer and healthier life.” Since I moved to the foothills, I’ve been lucky enough to encounter countless seniors who defy ageist stereotypes. They’ve joined clubs, volunteered, pursued creative endeavors such as painting, sewing or writing. They keep limber by practicing tai chi or yoga. Keep fit by hiking, skiing, playing pickleball and dancing. I haven’t danced for a while. Over the years, I’ve dragged my husband onto dance floors where he self-consciously shuffled from one foot to the other. So, when I heard one of the Newcomers’ hikers mention her Friday morning line dancing class at the Auburn Senior Center – a dance that didn’t require a partner – I hustled off to the Senior Center. I entered a room that was full (all women and one man) but not overcrowded. The instructor is Valerie Harrison, a retired teacher who’s been teaching line dancing at the center for 10 years. This petite dynamo is 81 years old. I hid in the back and tried to follow Valerie as she called out instructions. When I couldn’t see her feet, I locked onto those of a nearby student. Unfortunately, she was a beginner and no help at all. Just when I thought I might be getting it, Valerie switched to another dance, and then another. I decided my dancing days may be over. I telephoned Valerie when drafting this article, and she encouraged me to come back to the Senior Center and try again. And I may. She also referred me to a website: copperknob.co.uk that lists a mindboggling 148,470 step sheets and countless videos, uploaded by choreographers from all over the world. It’s a terrific site (minus the ads). Among the dances listed is Night Fever, choreographed by the late acclaimed actor and dancer Lester Wilson. He coached John Travolta in the 1977 movie “Saturday Night Fever.” There’s a demonstration video that will get you up and moving. Something else that may be of interest, a podcast: “Wiser Than Me,” hosted by Julia Louis-Dreyfus. She interviews older women to gain and share their wisdom. Intrigued, I discovered her podcast at lemonadamedia.com. I’m making progress on an interview list of 22 women, and the conversations with Gloria Steinem, Bonnie Raitt, Debbie Allen and comedienne Fran Leibowitz have been fascinating. Julia asked each of her guests their age, and then how old they felt. Fran Leibowitz replied she was 72 – and felt 82. Sometimes, age can be a laughing matter.

Do I risk life and limb and careen left or make a right? I faced this same decision shortly after moving to Auburn. Preparing to pull out of a side road into the speeding traffic of Highway 49 between Auburn and Grass Valley, I knew left was the quicker way home, but did I want to chance it? I turned right. In the past, I’d counted 13 traffic lights on 49 between Elm Ave. to Dry Creek Road. So, I reasoned, there certainly should be a light or two between Dry Creek and Combie, where I could make a safe U-turn. Off I drove … and drove … and drove. No traffic lights. The white signboard announcing in bold black letters “Daylight Headlight Section Enforced by CHP” gave me the jitters. What did that mean? Was there a tunnel ahead? I motored on. The next placard warned: Turn on headlights next 16 miles, safety corridor. My teeth chattered. Reluctantly, I kept my foot on the accelerator. Squinting up ahead, I glimpsed the word, “Nevada.” NEVADA? I’d crossed the state line! I’ve seen enough movies to know nothing good happens when you make a run for the border. I was headed for Boise! A few miles on, an amber light flashed – a traffic light. I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding, turned right and gratefully headed back toward California. This time, I was relaxed, knowing now the Nevada sign referred to the county, not the Silver State, and I was in no danger of leaving California. I drove the expected miles to Combie Road, made a right and motored along the scenic two-lane twisting road, eventually turning on Magnolia to Dogbar. Unfortunately, my serenity was short-lived. Crossing the one-lane bridge, I almost rear-ended a pickup truck parked in the middle of the road. A beard poked out of the driver-side window, followed by an arm signaling me to back up. Confused, I stayed put. A clean-shaved young man then materialized by my driver’s-side window, his dark face wreathed in a pleasant smile. I rolled down my window. “Who are you with?” I asked, as if we were at a company convention. “The tow truck company, Ma’am.” I softened. The American term, “Ma’am,” sounds so much more pleasant than the Brits’ “Madam,” which has a haughty ring. “A truck jackknifed, and it’s up the hill blocking traffic,” he explained. “You’ll have to back up and pull over so the traffic stuck up there can come through. The folks are getting annoyed.” “Back up?” I squeaked. Family and friends scatter like quail when they hear my car’s backup beeper. “Like me to do it?” he said kindly. Would I? I tried to leap out of the driver’s seat with my seatbelt still buckled. He reversed deftly down the hill and pulled over. We sat quietly and waited as a long line of scowling drivers zoomed by, shooting us ticked off looks as if we were personally responsible for the traffic jam. It was at this point I felt the effects of violating a rule created during a trip to Rome with two friends. We were never sure, no matter the venue, whether there would be a usable toilet available. So, before we left our rented apartment, we would remind each other to “go before we go,” regardless of whether we had advance signaling. This rule has taken on more urgency as I’ve grown older. Foolishly, I’d left my Newcomers and Neighbors hand and foot card game in a rush earlier. Now I sat demurely, my crossed right leg shutting off the circulation to my left. Finally, we were free to go back up the hill. I thanked the young man profusely and sped off. I screeched to a halt in my driveway. The front door was locked! I rang the bell and peered in the window in time to see my husband, Jim, heave himself out of the recliner, arms stuck out in front, looking for all the world like Greg Louganis on the high dive. I heard him shuffle to the door. He opened it a crack. Who did he think was driving my car? I pushed open the door, almost knocking the poor bloke over, and bunny-hopped down the hallway to the bathroom. Later that evening, comfortably settled on the sofa, I looked across at Jim in his recliner. Clasped in his left hand was the Auburn Journal, folded in fourths to the crossword page. His glasses sat on the end of his nose, his pen poised midair. He was frowning. “Can I help?” I asked. “Name a raceway,” he replied. “How many letters?” “One, two …….. 13.” “Highwayfortynine,” I said, and chuckled at my cleverness. He paused. “That’s 16,” he said.

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.