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.

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.