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.

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.”