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.

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.