THE LONELIEST HIGHWAY IN AMERICA

Passing through our town, Highway 50 stretches west about fifty miles to Sacramento, and east about three thousand miles to Ocean City, Maryland. It is not the fastest way to drive to the east coast, or even the most interesting, but it is unique. Our neighbors were so fascinated by the sign “Ocean City, MD, 3070 miles” near the Sacramento end that they jumped into their RV and spent a week or so driving to Maryland. We drive in a much more leisurely fashion, and so we have never imitated them.

Originally Highway 50 was part of the Lincoln Highway that ended in Alameda, on the east side of San Francisco Bay. The Alameda end is still shown by a marker on Webster St. (Or at least it was a few years ago, when I was living in Alameda.) From the Alameda end, drivers could take car ferries across the bay to San Francisco. The car ferries were discontinued in the 1939, when impatient drivers could drive across the Bay on the new Oakland–San Francisco Bay Bridge. Highway 80 has replaced the section of the Lincoln Highway from Sacramento to San Francisco, and now there are passenger-only ferries on the bay.

For many travelers Highway 50 is boring, a seemingly endless empty road with no scenery. Their reaction is somewhat justified. Only in some stretches are there mountains or other panoramas suitable for photos like those in RV magazines. For us, however, it is a fascinating highway worthy of inclusion in any RV itinerary. We have not yet committed ourselves to seeing the entire route, but have enjoyed driving across Nevada several times. Long stretches of desert are punctuated by passes through mountains. We have seen petroglyphs and explored fossil beds .

Driving from our part of California to Nevada (which takes only a little more than an hour) is an adventure in itself, because we climb up the west slope of the Sierra Nevada Mountains and pass above the south branch of the American River. The mountain scenery is so spectacular that it almost makes us wonder why we are leaving home. But we forge on.

South Lake Tahoe is the first city we reach in Nevada; it borders beautiful Lake Tahoe, straddles the state line between California and Nevada, and provides a striking contrast between the two states. In California, the town is fairly rustic (though becoming more and more upscale). One of our favorite public libraries is there—it has huge windows facing the lake, and there is space for our 24’ RV in the free parking lot.

On the Nevada side, South Lake Tahoe is lined with flashy casinos and looks a lot like Reno or Las Vegas. Not being gamblers, we usually drive through it quickly, but we did once spend the night in a casino parking lot. Highway 50 curves to the right here, and goes on to Carson City.

Nevada’s capital, Carson City, is about 30 miles south of Reno. It was developed during the nineteenth-century silver strike in the Comstock Lode and named for mountain man Kit Carson. The nineteenth-century architecture and period-piece stores make it a good place to visit. My partner, a train buff, especially enjoys the Nevada Railroad Museum. At one time the Virginia and Truckee Railroad ran to Virginia City, and some day we surely will visit that city. (I have seen all too many railroad museums in the past few years, and hope there is something else for me to do there.)

 

The next city along eastbound Highway 50 is Silver Springs. We have never happened to stop there, but Googling indicates that some spots of possible interest to RVers are near by: the Lahontan Reservoir and State Recreation Area, and historic Fort Churchill State Historic Park.

Fallon is a frankly ugly city with many casinos and old motels, but it has a good library. (We rely heavily on libraries as we travel, for local information and Wi-Fi.) After Fallon, Highway 50 truly begins to justify its nickname of “the loneliest highway in America.” We enjoyed the Shoshone gas station, where the roof over the gas pumps is supported by huge concrete “tree trunks.” Buying gas in Fallon can be critical, for the next town (Austin) is 110 miles to the east.

That 110 miles can seem much longer. The apparently endless sagebrush-bordered road stretches off to the east, and is usually spookily empty. City dwellers may find Highway 50 very unsettling along here. Hamilton and other towns that thrived here after the silver rush are all gone now. We find the scenery enthralling, with the vast skies making nighttime stargazing easy.

Just west of Austin, we have noted signs to Big Creek campground and to Berlin–Ichthyosaur State Park (which is 56 miles to the south of Highway 50). We plan to stop at both of them in the future.

Nevada’s silver rush began in 1862 and lasted only about twenty years. In the 1950s uranium mining had a short run, as have gold and silver throughout the years. Turquoise mining is still popular, with turquoise jewelry being widely available here. Austin is still preserved as a sort of frontier “ghost town,” with many spots on the National Register of Historic Places.

East of Austin, we once stayed at the USFS Bob Scott campground. It had not been well cared for (the toilets were very messy!), but was free and in a pleasant location. When you travel by RV on a low budget, you aren’t terribly fussy. By now I can hope the water and toilets are operating, even though the campground is probably not free any more. Across the highway from the campground, a historical plaque, “The Surveyors,” honors the U.S. surveyors who mapped vast areas from Nevada to the Pacific in 1859 and 1860.

Looking down on Austin from the mountains to the east, you see an attractive little town, with only the western mountains providing relief from the cold-desert plant life where a few cattle graze.

Because Highway 50 passes along much of the old Pony Express mail route, several old station ruins can be seen along the road east of Austin. (Back near our home in California, one of the original stations has been preserved and is still used as the Sportsman’s Hall restaurant.)

One of our favorite stops along Highway 50 is the Hickison Petroglyphs Recreation Area, a BLM area 24 miles east of Austin. Hickison has free campsites and nice toilets. There is no water available, but with a little planning that isn’t a problem for RVers. There are ancient petroglyphs and hiking trails that we enjoyed.

Eureka lived up to its “friendliest city” motto for us on a return trip from Utah. I was planning to take Amtrak home from Reno (while my partner drove the View back alone), but needed to print out a train ticket ahead of time. In Eureka, the public library—our usual stopping place when we need help—was closed that day, so we went to the local senior center and asked if they had an Internet connection we could use. Not only did they allow us to do so, but they printed out the train ticket, which was a fairly complicated transaction. And then they recommended a local mechanic who could do a minor repair on our RV!

The senior center was not the only attraction in Eureka, of course. An old city founded by silver prospectors in the 1800s, and the county seat of Eureka County, it boasts the restored Eureka Opera House, the Jackson House Hotel, and the Eureka Sentinel newspaper building, all built in the nineteenth century The Eureka Sentinel Museum is housed in the newspaper building. We strolled along the main street while waiting to take the RV to the mechanic. All in all, we have very fond memories of Eureka and the helpful workers at the senior center.

About 20 miles east of Eureka, a rather odd tall tree rises out of the sand and rock along the north side of the road. Strange leaves or cones appear to dangle from its branches. Closer inspection shows that these objects are shoes: thousands of old shoes that have been thrown (or perhaps catapulted in some cases) onto the high branches. Apparently bored travelers have been disposing of worn-out shoes there for many years. On one recent trip we added a pair of our own.

Here in the Great Basin, the climate is cold and dry in winter, hot and dry in summer. In spite of the dryness, snow may accumulate to several feet annually.

The Illipah Reservoir has a good free campground with fourteen large, fenced (!) sites. Like most reservoirs in the West, this one has fallen in size in recent years, but is still popular with fishers.

Ely was founded as a station along the Pony Express route, and grew large when copper was discovered near by in 1906. The railroad to Ely, a relic of railroads connecting the First Transcontinental Railroad to mines, has been preserved as a heritage railway. Signs along the highway implied that we could ride an old steam train from the Nevada Northern Railway Museum, so of course we had to stop. As it turned out, the only train available at the time had a diesel engine, which was disappointing. We did reluctantly ride the train anyway, for a pleasant journey that included a staged holdup by masked gunmen.

The Kennecott copper mining company flourished here until the 1970s, when there was a crash in the copper market and Kennecott shut down.. Now copper has regained value, and mining has resumed, with copper concentrate being shipped to Seattle, then sent to Japan for smelting.

Great Basin National Park, near the eastern edge of Nevada, is apparently less popular than many of the other national parks, but we greatly enjoyed a quick visit there. One of the major attractions in the park is the Lehman caves. I am not particularly fond of caves, but even I was captivated by these. They are far less touristy than better-known caves, with little damage to the stalactites and stalagmites. You can see the opening where a pony stumbled, leading to the caves’ discovery.

Elk, black bears, and other wildlife are found here. The excellent Visitors’ Center is a good place to start exploring the park. Both the upper and lower campgrounds in Great Basin are fine places to stay, but only the lower one is accessible for RVs.

Highway 50 continues far to the east of Nevada, and that’s a story for another blog. . .

All photos (c) 2015 by Thane Puissegur

SUICIDES IN PALO ALTO

Last week my book club read the debut novel Everything I Never Told You, by Celeste Ng. Ng recounts the story of Lydia, a Chinese-American teenager who dies in mysterious circumstances. Lydia is the daughter of a mother who was unable to reach her own goal of becoming a doctor, and of a father who struggled unsuccessfully to be accepted by others. Predictably, both parents try to relive their own lives through Lydia.

 I reacted to the book less favorably than many reviewers have, finding it maudlin and overdramatizing some unimportant parts of the story. In thinking about the book later, though, I saw it as being a perfect example of a tragic current problem, the enormous pressure put on high school students to compete for admission to the best colleges and to excel in other aspects of life. In the current Atlantic, writer Hanna Rosin describes the pressure in “The Silicon Valley Suicides.” In particular, she writes about the high rate of suicide at Gunn High School in Palo Alto. 

That article struck home with me. In the early 1980s I was a research assistant in the Stanford and the Schools study (published as What High Schools Are Like: Views from the Inside). We grad students spent many hours “shadowing” high school students in Palo Alto, talking with them and their teachers, and sitting in on their classes. Though we never met their parents, we easily inferred what they were like.

My own results showed a sharp contrast between the education of college-bound and other students. Those who were not considered college material were tracked into appealing classes with warm, caring teachers. Foreign languages and other subjects were taught with entertaining curricula that did not appear to be "dumbed down." Classrooms for this group were colorful, and the students seemed to be enjoying themselves.

In contrast, the college-bound students were tracked into very challenging classes that seemed boring to me. The students themselves seemed only mildly interested in the science or math; they were totally focused on getting high grades that would lead to admission to Stanford or other top schools, and eventually to high-paying jobs. Many of them took classes that began before 8 A.M., so they could end the school day early and take part in extracurricular activities to be added to their portfolios. One student I followed, a personable, very intelligent boy, swam in the school swimming pool at 7 every morning, then put in a long day of classes. When I asked him about his long-term goals, he seemed surprised; he shrugged and answered that he studied hard so he could go to a good college, and then to graduate school. However, he had no special career goal or other interests.

That research took place before the Silicon Valley dot-com revolution, but in the years since, pressure on students to achieve at any price has gotten even higher. Rosin writes of anxious, depressed boys and girls who attempt suicide by swallowing toxic doses of pills or throwing themselves onto train tracks. If achievement is this overvalued, both parents and schools have much to answer for. Learning should be rewarding in itself, not just a route to more learning.

BEING A CAREGIVER

I am reposting this blog, which I wrote in 2012, because of the importance of the topic. I think my conclusion about reaching out for help is essential.

How did this happen to me? I never planned to take care of anyone else. After years of working in editorial offices, I earned a PhD from Stanford and set up my own business. The Stone Cottage was a writing and editing service for educational publishers; I specialized in biology, but worked on nearly any program for science education. My chemical engineer husband was self-sufficient, and we had no children. We seemed to be doing everything right.

In the mid-eighties my husband, who already had type 2 diabetes, had a heart attack. I stopped working for a few weeks to help him recover. Around the same time, my widowed mother decided to move from Florida to California to be near us. Again, I stopped working for a while to drive her and some of her belongings across the country and get her settled in a house she bought. Eventually, our lives settled down and I returned to my writing and editing.

 

As it turned out, my husband’s health worsened greatly over the years. Though he was well for long periods, every year or so he would have a medical crisis and enter the hospital for a while. By the time he died in 2003, he had had a sextuple bypass and several other cardiac surgeries, a cervical laminectomy, and amputations of a leg and some toes; and was on dialysis. His medical bills came to more than a million dollars, so even though he was well insured, we had to use our retirement savings to pay our portion. I cut down greatly on working to care for him, adding to our financial difficulties.

 

During the same period, my mother became unable to live alone, so we bought a larger home with an in-law apartment where she could live. I was the only caregiver for both her and my husband, doing the cooking, laundry, and other household chores.

 

After my husband died, my attention focused on my mother, who was in her nineties. More and more, she needed my help with bathing and other routine daily activities. In 2005 she entered an assisted living facility, and though I visited her almost daily, my life became much easier. When she died at the age of 101, my role as a caregiver ended.

 

My slide into caregiving was gradual, as it is for many caregivers. At first it was a matter of taking my mother shopping, occasionally rushing my husband to the hospital, and generally being available when they needed my help. Over the years, though, caregiving took over my life. I had little time for building a network of women friends or pursuing my individual interests.

 

Of course, in a sense I was lucky. Having a home office, I could combine working and caregiving when the projects were small enough and the deadlines were reasonable. (Any freelance editor will find that amusing.) If I could do it again, perhaps I would hire more help, so I could stay active professionally. As it was, I lost touch with what was happening both in science and in publishing, and failed to learn the new techniques that are needed for editors today. Though I have continued to write, I have done so only sporadically. Geriatrics  will probably be my last full-length book.

 

Would I do it again, given the cost to my own life? Yes! Though professional caregivers can be excellent, only a family member can provide the ill or aging with all the loving help and shared memories they need. Caring for my husband and mother gave me a sense of fulfillment I have never felt otherwise; during those years I became much closer to them, and found myself becoming less self-centered. We all benefited from our situation.

 

However, I would reach out more for help. Like many caregivers, I was naïve about the financial aid that is available. I might have been paid at least a small amount for my time, as my staying home made it possible for my husband to remain out of a nursing home. We probably could have received Medi-Cal benefits, but assumed that because we had a nice home and car, we would be turned down. Instead, we struggled to stay afloat. A social worker asked me once whether we needed financial help; why was I too proud to say yes? Caregivers’ support groups were available, and I should have made time to join one. The Unitarian women’s circle I found after my husband’s death was a wonderful source of friendship and support, but I could have found it years earlier. If it takes a village to raise a child, it also takes one to care for those near the end of life and for their caregivers.

 

MOTORHOMES IN THE FUTURE

For the past couple of years, we have had terrifying wildfires in northern California. Thousands of people either lost their homes in the fires or were evacuated to safe areas temporarily. Fairgrounds, casinos, church parking lots, and other places were converted overnight into campground-like shelters. Many of them advertised free electrical and water hookups.

Many of the evacuees arrived in their RVs. Bad as it was for them to leave their homes, they must have found the familiar RV surroundings very comforting. Staying where they had a few clothes, a galley, and even an entertainment system must  have made an enormous difference to them.

In a time of terrorism, we cannot predict what the future will hold, or what may happen in our immediate environments. Having an RV might mean escaping from great danger.

RVs can be useful in other non-recreational ways. Young people are usually quite mobile, and may move far from home for jobs or school.  Searching for a decent and affordable apartment can be a nightmare, wasting time and money that might be better spent in other ways, but someone with an RV doesn’t have to go through it.  Cities or college towns with large unused  spaces  (such as torn down shopping malls) might even benefit from creating pleasant  motorhome parks where people could easily  move for a short time. Once there, they might decide to stay and become part of the permanent community.

The tiny-home trend shows how little many people value large, expensive homes.  During the dot-com boom, especially, McMansions were very popular; now, except for the filthy rich one percent of the population, people have turned away from them. For a reasonable cost, anyone can buy a cute, tiny home with all the basic necessities.  Even tiny homes, though, are usually difficult or impossible to move if that becomes necessary. An RV can provide the same amenities plus the enormous advantage of being a vehicle.

The many drawbacks of RV life are undeniable:  most motorhomes are less comfortable than even a small home,  there are no permanent hookups for water or electricity, and they  depreciate in value rather quickly. Anyone considering living in one for more than a few months would do well to think about the disadvantages carefully before making a commitment. Though I am very attached to our 24’ Winnebago View, if I were going to live in a motorhome for a long period, I would want a large vehicle with a queen-sized bed and closet space.

For many of us, the American dream still includes owning a brick-and-mortar home, but it does not have to be an extraordinarily expensive one that makes travel impossible. We might consider having it all: Perhaps  a modest home plus a motorhome is the home of the future.

 

 

 

 

 

 

A VEGETARIAN THANKSGIVING

Though I am not a very good cook, many years ago I learned to roast a turkey and provide a Thanksgiving feast with all the fixin’s.  In spite of the work, it gave me a lot of pleasure.

My partner, rather unfortunately for our social life, is a vegetarian. Most of the time I am happy to be a herbivore (with occasional sneaky forays to a burger joint), but it does lead to some problems around the holidays. If we join others for dinner, someone is likely to beg him to “try just a little turkey,” or to lecture him about protein, rather than allowing him to eat the side dishes in peace.  Usually we manage to travel somewhere far away from friends and family at Thanksgiving and Christmas.  We feast on squash, mashed potatoes, pumpkin pie, and other traditional foods, skipping the turkey.

One year, though, we wanted to take our chances on the family Thanksgiving gathering, just so we could visit with them. We packed up the Winnebago View and started out for southern California.

The sky was cloudy, and the weather forecast was for possible showers. As we drove, clouds gathered above us, thunder rolled, and lightning flashed. Within an hour or so, rain began pouring down. When we could no longer see the freeway, we decided to pull off and sit out the storm. Luckily, just then we saw a sign pointing toward a county park. I have forgotten what the park itself looked like; it was probably just a large, grassy area with some picnic tables and restrooms. More importantly, it was a safe place to stay comfortably for a while.

The rain went on and on, until we realized there was no way we could reach  southern California that day. Calling our hostess, we explained our situation and said we were not coming after all.

Being RV owners, we had of course brought plenty of food with us, so we sat at the dinette table eating a simple meal and listening to music as the rain lessened. Then we looked out the window and saw a huge flock of wild turkeys running across the grass toward us. Some were displaying their plumage in peacock fashion, others were having beak-to-beak encounters that reminded us of teenaged humans. They were having a wonderful time, enjoying their freedom rather than gracing someone’s Thanksgiving table.

It was the best Thanksgiving a vegetarian could want.

THE FOGGY, FOGGY COAST

Coastal fog from the Pacific Ocean can be romantic and mysterious. Many times I have walked the streets of San Francisco at night, when fog was rolling in from the ocean, and foghorns were sounding. It was thrilling, like a scene in a Dashiell Hammett mystery. The romance wears off eventually, though, with overexposure.

Recently we visited Patrick’s Point, a scenic spot on the coast south of California’s Crescent City. The campground was overpriced ($35 for dry camping), like campgrounds in all California state parks.  I was disappointed with the park until we went out to gaze at the Pacific from Wedding Rock, a high rock with an easy trail winding up to the top.

Waves crashed against the rocks below and sent spray high into the air. The views up and down the coast were magnificent, justifying the high cost of our camp site. (A couple of girls tried to persuade us that they had reserved our site on the Internet. Knowing the sites were first come, first served, we threw them out. Later we noticed their tents in a site where some young men were camped, and heard laughter, so apparently we didn’t do them a disservice.)

The brochure describing Patrick’s Point mentioned that most of the year the area is “shrouded in fog;” as we were there in October, when the days are sunny and clear, we saw it at its best.  It must be a sad sight during the summer tourist season, when it would be both crowded and foggy.

The Pacific coast in general is a foggy place. My late husband and I lived in Daly City, just south of San Francisco, for four years when I was in grad school, and became all too familiar with fog. In spite of Malvina Reynolds’s snide song about “ticky-tacky little boxes,” Daly City was in many ways a pleasant place to live, but the fog made it almost unbearable. Mildew constantly grew on the shower curtain and any other place it could thrive. We could see only a few blocks down the street.  In winter the fog was cold; in summer it was sometimes hot and muggy, but usually cold and muggy. Worst of all, the fog was depressing, like that in the song “Foggy, Foggy Dew” that Burl Ives used to sing. If I had had to live there much longer, I’d have gone around the bend.

HOMECOMING

Many years ago the Pulitzer Prize winning poet Phyllis McGinley wrote Sixpence in her Shoe (1964), celebrating the joys of home and family life. The book would have been received warmly in the fifties, but at the time it was published the women’s liberation movement was underway. Women readers and reviewers were more receptive to Betty Friedan’s The Feminine Mystique and Helen Gurley Brown’s Sex and the Single Girl than to McGinley’s book, and she suffered a great deal of criticism from academics and fellow writers.

Though out of sync with the national  women’s mood at the time, McGinley’s book was a persuasive, well written argument for cultivating traditional values. Young women of today who grew up hearing the complaints of us old feminists would probably find it more appealing than we did.

I especially recall McGinley’s comments about falling in love with a house. That may explain my sudden recent purchase of a home. I had just sold my house in Placerville,  which had never been more than a pied à terre, and planned to be on the road in the RV for a long time.

But then my Realtor called to tell me about an “adorable” little house in Pollock Pines, just a few miles from my companion’s off-grid home,  that had just appeared on the market. I drove past the house and was hooked. She was right—the house is adorable, and is surrounded with enormous pines, redwoods, and dogwoods. Built in 1970, it has the charm of an older home and the conveniences of a recent one. It even has the ideal kitchen—not too small, not too large, and arranged in an efficient U shape—with a greenhouse window where I can grow some herbs and flowers. I made an immediate offer that the owners accepted. In just a week escrow will close, and I can move in.

I am not a good cook, and that is unlikely to change. But, baking some cookies or other simple foods while listening to music will be enjoyable in this kitchen. There is a small, hospitable-looking front porch where I can sit and chat with neighbors. Books (not only those on my Nook, but also books printed on real paper, with underlining and a few coffee stains) will be everywhere.

Finding the right balance between a career and other “outside” interests and family life has never been easy for any woman. Though I am somewhat embittered by my own experiences in the workplace, and am very much a feminist, I also cherish the domestic life.

This is not a rejection of the RV life. I will continue traveling as long as I can! Travel is one of the great joys of life, and probably I will have only a few more years to indulge in it comfortably. But, now I can also look forward to returning to this home, where I can enjoy the satisfactions of domestic life.

FIFTY YEARS OF MEDICARE

In 1961 I left a lowly job in medical research, and went looking for another one.  An ad for “research assistant” posted by the American Medical Association looked promising,  so I answered it.

It turned out to be my first editorial job , and certainly was the strangest.  I had fallen down the rabbit hole into an unreal world.   At weekly staff meetings, one dormouse-like little old man always fell asleep after the first few moments. Another man invariably came up with bizarre suggestions for editorial projects, a bit like the Mad Hatter.  Every Friday we had a farewell party for whichever coworker was making their escape. One of the secretaries, who  looked scarily like Morticia of the Addams family, sneaked around on rubber-soled shoes and seldom spoke to anyone.  Another secretary began making odd statements about conspiracies going on in the organization. For a long time people simply assumed she had uncovered something sinister in the course of her work, but finally one of the M.D.s in the department realized she had a brain tumor.  Altogether it was a weird place.

 From today’s point of view, one of the oddest characteristics of the AMA was their rabid opposition to Medicare. The costs of medicine for the elderly (and everyone else) were becoming unaffordable, but the AMA officials insisted that passing Medicare legislation would doom the country. Actor Ronald Reagan, who in a few years would be the governor of California, made a film for the AMA in which he proclaimed that passage would lead us down the path to socialism (almost equated with Communism at the time). In the Journal of the American Medical Association ( JAMA) and its other journals, AMA officials insisted that it would destroy the high-quality medical care Americans were receiving.  Luckily for all of us, President Lyndon Johnson made it a high priority, and Medicare became a reality in 1965.

Can any sane American now imagine life without Medicare? Even the most right-wing Republican is likely to rely heavily on it after the age of 65. Conservative opposition today has more to do with cutting the budget for it, which  would be bad enough.

My late husband went through numerous hospitalizations and surgeries before dying of heart disease and diabetes. In his last few years his medical bills came to more than a million dollars. Being a Navy employee, he was well insured; but even with the help of Medicare and a good Medigap plan, the financial cost was enormous for us. We used up our retirement savings, and after his death I had to sell our home. But I have survived and continue to live decently, if frugally. Without Medicare I cannot imagine what my life would be today.

LIVING WITH UNCERTAINTY

Most people seem to have settled down by the time they reach their late seventies. They are either happily staying in homes where they have lived for years, or they are reluctantly moving into some sort of assisted living.

Not me. I am selling the Placerville home I bought only a few years ago, and have not yet bought another one. The reasons are mainly financial (this house was meant as an investment, and has no emotional connections for me), but I seem doomed not to remain anywhere more than a decade.

Where would I go if I left the Gold Rush country? Back to the San Francisco Bay area? I loved that area, and miss it in many ways. Living there would mean constantly  hearing about the Big One arriving at any time, though. After living through the Loma Prieta quake in 1989, I don’t care to repeat the experience.  That area  is also extremely expensive. Back to Chicago? Nah! Again, Chicago is a wonderful place, with incomparable museums, but the winter weather is simply dreadful. Having lived in California since 1980, I doubt that I could survive a Chicago winter now.  Back to Michigan, where I was born and still have some friends and relatives?  And where every summer brings the threat of tornadoes?  Leaving California seems like an unlikely option, even with the continuing drought and the danger of wildfires.

Of course, I can always stay with my companion in his off-grid home.  I am there much of the time now, and enjoy the forested surroundings, but need some of the modern conveniences provided by lots of electricity. The older I become, the harder it is to live off the grid. The hard work is starting to overwhelm my companion, also. It may be easy to persuade him to move.

Or, we can continue to travel in the View. For long periods we can tour scenic and cultural areas, with occasional stops at libraries and coffee shops where I can get my Wi-Fi fix.  I do need some sort of permanent address, if only for storage space and for a place to rest up from traveling. (Perhaps one of the RV resorts where I might buy a small home with an RV pad?) For the next few years, at least, traveling as much as possible seems like the best option. Traveling in an RV is never boring or overly certain; each day brings some new adventure.

As the old saying goes, Nothing is certain but death and taxes. I am not immortal, and the IRS has been dunning me for taxes they say I owe. Everything else is up in the air.

ATTICUS FINCH, REVISED EDITION

Harper Lee’s just-released novel Go Set a Watchman continues the story of Jean Louise (“Scout”) Finch and her father, Atticus. In Lee’s Pulitzer Prize winning To Kill a Mockingbird (1960), set in Alabama in the 1930s, Atticus was a heroic lawyer who stood up to the local rednecks by representing a young black man who was falsely accused of rape. (The book’s popularity was soon ensured by the movie, starring beloved actor Gregory Peck as Atticus.) In the new book Jean Louise and the readers see an older, flawed Atticus who joins a local citizens’ council that opposes the NAACP in the fifties, toward the beginning of the civil rights era.

Many readers who have loved To Kill a Mockingbird for half a century, and revered Atticus, have been horrified. (Reviews of the new book have been mixed, but the quality of the writing is another issue.) Online and in print, comments like “Atticus was a racist” have appeared. In the novel, the adult Jean Louise herself reacted violently when she came home from living in New York and realized what her father was doing. Her love and respect for Atticus were severely threatened. It seems likely that Lee’s relationship with her own father, on whom Atticus was presumably based, was endangered also.

Though I never confronted my own father as sharply as Jean Louise did, during the sixties and seventies we had some prickly disagreements about civil rights. Like Atticus, he was an intelligent, fair-minded man who treated all people equally, but his background and education simply doomed him to an intolerant outlook. Born in 1908 and growing up in a conservative, mainly white, area of the Midwest, he never was exposed to other races and religions as a child. Though college-educated, he never accepted the sameness of blacks and whites, or of Jews and Gentiles. I feel sure that if he had not died in the seventies, he would have become much more liberal. (My mother, who was also born in 1908 and died only a few years ago, had become nearly as liberal as I am by the time she died.) This is not just wishful thinking on my part: my father was anti-Semitic also, but when I married a Jew, his attitude changed quickly. Simple exposure can work wonders.

It is easy to judge people who lived in the past by current standards. History textbooks today are more judgmental about George Washington and Thomas Jefferson, for example, than they once were. However, individuals and groups of people are continually changing. In the fifties, many well-intentioned people had attitudes about race, homosexuality, marriage, and other issues that would seem quaint, if not actually evil, today. We need to try to understand them as products of their environment.

There is a genetic aspect, also: Though in some circles it is politically incorrect to state it, it is obvious from sociobiology that we have some inborn prejudices. Cleaving to the group that resembles us must have had adaptive advantages early in human evolution; so, try as we may, it is hard for those of every race not to distrust or even fear other groups. Understanding prejudices must not lead to agreeing with them, of course. It is important to recognize our prejudices and to strive to overcome them rather than denying they exist. As different groups intermingle and intermarry, tolerance seems to be increasing, but complete acceptance will still take a long time. In the meantime, we need to use education and legislation to lessen ignorance and to protect minorities.

 

DEATH WITH DIGNITY

 Brittany_Maynard had everything to live for. Newly married, the beautiful and intelligent young woman should have looked forward to a long, happy life with a husband and children. Instead, she was diagnosed with terminal brain cancer and told that she would die within a year. She began her painful journey toward death, having seizures, severe head and neck pain, and stroke-like symptoms. At some point she decided not to continue in agony, but to die on a date of her choosing, shortly after her husband’s birthday.

Brittany lived in California, where she could not commit suicide legally. Instead of dying peacefully in her home as she wished, she and her husband had to move to Oregon, which allows physician-assisted suicide. (A physician supplied the aid-in-dying medication she would need, but she would have to administer it herself.)  Though she was fortunate in having that choice available, moving away from her parents and friends must have severely upset her already tumultuous life. She spent some of those last few months working with the Compassion & Choices group, which helps the dying and publicizes the difficulties they face in carrying out their decisions. Her video is familiar to most of us now.

The publicity about her death led to a California legislator’s introducing SB 128, a bill that would have made Brittany’s kind of death legal in California. Many of us (a large majority of the Californians polled) are in favor of death with dignity, and thought the bill would pass easily, but it was quickly defeated by religious and other groups who represent themselves as being in favor of life. They trotted out the usual arguments about possible miraculous recoveries, not letting temporary depression cloud a sick person’s judgment, and so on. It was sickening to read their smug remarks.

I do not want to hear any pious comments about waiting until “God called her home,” implying that it was sinful or stupid for her to end her life on her own terms. What kind of people are these who deny a dying woman the right to end her painful life a little early? Has any person who has watched a loved one die slowly and in agony want to condemn anyone else to that kind of death? We need to pass some version of SB 128 to ensure the right of Californians to escape unnecessary suffering from terminal illnesses without having to move to a more compassionate state.

WRITING VS. RV TRAVEL

Writing and RV travel should go together like ham and eggs. When we bought the Winnebago View, I thought we could travel from place to place with frequent stops at libraries or museums where I could do research; we would spend our days sightseeing; and I would do my writing in the evenings and on layover days. That plan didn’t work, for obvious reasons I should have foreseen. After a day of driving or sightseeing, I have little energy left for writing. Even this simple blog has suffered; my weekly posts have become monthly or occasional.

Do other writers on the road have this problem, or is it just me? Am I too lazy or too old to continue the writing that has been so important in my life? I have known other writers who went on writing well into their nineties, and I should be able to follow in their footsteps.

Even at home, I can no longer maintain the routine I had during many years of freelance work. Housework that seemed so easy when I was younger (or, better, that was often taken care of by a cleaning service) now seems too hard to manage, and my small income doesn’t justify hiring household help now. So, housework too often takes the time that should be spent on writing.

For about fifty years I wrote and edited materials for science education, especially in human ecology. It was occasionally frustrating to work with certain authors or publishers, but on the whole the life was very satisfying, and often it was joyful. I never wanted to change careers.

There have been too many advances in the sciences for me to continue writing competently in that field, though I still avidly read Scientific American and other popular science magazines. I need to do my writing in another area, but what new niche can I find? Many others write more ably than I can about the RV life, travel destinations, and so on. My memoirs were written years ago, and I have no wish to repeat that cathartic experience. The two whodunits I wrote were simply dreadful. What is left?

Perhaps I will go on writing indignant letters to the editor, and posting blogs, about environmental issues that require only superficial knowledge of the science behind them. Heaven knows, there are plenty of those issues—fracking, oil spills along the coasts, women’s right to choose reproductive freedom, wasted resources, GMO’s. In some cases I may even be able to expand a letter or blog post to a magazine article. However this turns out, I need to continue to continue writing in some form about issues that I find compelling. In spite of all the damage humans have done, Earth is still a beautiful planet that must be saved.  In the words of the old Quaker  hymn,

Through all the tumult and the strife
I hear the music ringing;
It finds an echo in my soul—
How can I keep from singing?

OUR CROWDED PARKS

When we visited Canyonlands National Park in southern Utah recently, we failed to make a campground reservation. After all, it was May, surely too early for the hordes of tourists that drive into the parks in summer. We forgot to note that we were arriving just a few days before Memorial Day, a very popular time. (Indeed, on Saturday the entrance to nearby Arches National Park was closed by the state police, for the first time ever, because backed-up traffic onto the highway was so hazardous.) So, we spent two nights out on Bureau of Land Management (BLM) lands before scoring a campsite inside the park. Even then, only my partner’s disabled placard made it possible. We spent three wonderful days in Canyonlands.

For such a huge park (527 square miles), Canyonlands has surprisingly few campsites, possiby as the result of an attempt to protect the park’s fragile desert environment. The two campgrounds have a total of thirty-seven sites. Early every morning, RVers and tent campers circle every loop, watching like vultures for people who are vacating their sites. (No reservations are possible; it is a first come–first served situation. For the elderly, getting up at dawn to drive into a park and then compete for a site can be very difficult.) Fortunately, other campgrounds can be found near by in Dead Horse Point State Park, the BLM’s Horsethief campground, and other spots.

One effective way to avoid disappointment is to travel before May 15 or after September 10, when children are in school, and families are less likely to be on the road. Even then, though, it is becoming harder and harder to travel and find stopping places for the night.

In just the past few years, national parks have become much more popular for a variety of reasons, including Ken Burns’s TV series. As a parks enthusiast, of course I am happy to see this trend, even if it makes my life more difficult. To be sure of having a campsite, reservations for the most crowded places are essential. Barbara Parker, who with her husband has been a host at one of the Yellowstone campgrounds for several years, has written in an online RV forum about her pity for and astonishment at people who arrive in mid-summer with no reservations and expect to camp. They cannot stay, and it is a far, far drive out of the park! When we went to Yellowstone (after Labor Day) a few years ago we found a riverside spot just outside the park that had nice pit toilets, but finding it was just dumb luck.

As we refuse to lock ourselves into a schedule when traveling, the need for reservations is a pain. In the West, where the BLM has vast public land areas, we can simply pull off the road and stay overnight. There is always Wal-Mart, too. As a last resort, private RV campgrounds are common nearly everywhere. So many of them are either too expensive or slumlike that we scarcely ever use them.

This country’s state and national parks still have the features that make them so appealing, and they are the last habitats for some threatened or endangered species. What is the solution to the crowding? Some legislators (including mine, unfortunately) in the House of Representatives feel that more campgrounds and other facilities (such as skating rinks) should be opened up “for the people,” as if conservation is elitist, but I feel that would be a serious mistake. We must preserve our parks, where much of the natural environment remains, and where visitors can learn about archeology, paleontology, ecology, and history in unmatched fashion. If we lose these priceless places, or convert them to theme parks, we can never get them back. Yes, I will be irritated when it is hard for us to find a campsite. In the long run, though, preserving the parks trumps anyone’s personal wishes.

 

CRONE WISDOM

Now in my late seventies, I have been around the block a few times. I can’t pretend to have learned everything about living the good life, and too many things I spent a lot of time or money on are no longer useful, at least for me. For example:

• Learning how to perform a hysterectomy on a Drosophila.
• Reading with the Evelyn Wood method.
• Spotting typos in galley proofs of hand-set type.
• Learning WordStar, WordPerfect, and several other obsolete word-processing programs.

 

Some other things I have learned, though, have continued to serve me well, and seem important enough to pass on:

• Taking notes in Pitman shorthand.
• Baking with a solar oven.
• Doing basic housework for sanitation (but you don’t have to eat off the floor).
• Balancing a chemical equation.
• Doing simple statistical tests to evaluate medical claims.
• And so on.

More importantly, I know the importance of friendship, and appreciate my friends more than when I was younger. Though I am an introvert who prefers spending much time alone, I have learned to place a higher priority on friendship than on accomplishment or education. (Many years ago I told a close friend I was too busy writing a paper to go for a walk with her. When she committed suicide a week later, I felt partly to blame.)

Another important lesson I should have learned when young is that drinking alcohol does not increase happiness. For me, as for many people, the first glass of wine does lead to relaxation and peacefulness; but it too frequently leads to a second glass or more. Being an editor in the sixties meant taking authors to dinner, working at National Science Teachers Association (NSTA) and other conventions where our textbooks were advertised, and otherwise being in situations where drinking was encouraged. I have a low tolerance for alcohol and should have avoided it altogether; instead, I did a lot of silly or stupid things while under the influence. When I went back to grad school later, and became a freelance author and editor, I switched to drinking wine (especially the inexpensive Trader Joe’s “two-buck Chuck”), but began a habit of ending every work day with a glass or two of wine.

That much wine sounds harmless, and for many people it is healthful, but I realized it was more than I personally can tolerate. Occasionally I would mention my concern to a doctor, and invariably got the “That much wine is good for you!” response. So, I went on with mild but daily drinking. It helped me ease the pain of becoming a widow. I’m not sure what the final effect would have been. Only when I met my partner in 2005 did I have to face the issue. He is a teetotaler who feels strongly about drinking, and I knew I might lose him. So, I stopped. It was a little hard at first, like giving up on an unreliable friendship, but now alcohol holds no appeal for me at all. Why did it take me so long to learn such an important lesson? As the saying goes, "We grow too soon old, and too late smart.”

 

THE END OF GRIEVING

 

During the past year, some of my old friends have been widowed. It is saddening to watch them go through the early stages of grief--denial, anger, bargaining, depression--and to be helpless to offer them little but my affection and sympathy. Though I know that in time they will reach the final stage of grieving, acceptance, they are not ready to believe it. Nor should they. Each widow needs to experience the process herself.

April 28 will be here soon. On that date twelve years ago—a lovely, sunny day with all the promise late April brings--I took Harold to the Alameda ER where he had been treated successfully many times. Two hours later, he was dead. I stumbled out to the car in a pouring rain. Like my own life, the whole world had changed.

That first year was the hardest, and when April 28 came around again, I seemed to relive all the events of his death as I lighted a yahrzeit candle in his memory. The idea that I could ever accept life without him seemed impossible.

Over the years since, of course it did happen. Not only did I reach acceptance, but am whole again. This year as always I will burn a candle for him, smiling at the memory of happy times in our thirty-two years of marriage and feeling grateful that healing did occur. L’chaim! To life!  

 

THE HIGH COST OF DRUGS

Like most elderly people, I take several medicines every day--for hypertension, arthritis, and other ailments--and hate to think what life would be without those drugs.

Recently I learned I have pancreatitis, a painful disease caused by a sluggish pancreas.  Just getting the diagnosis took several months, so finally learning the source of my pain was a great relief, especially when some samples of Creon (pancreatic enzymes) helped greatly. Then my doctor broke the news that Creon (manufactured by Abbott Labs) costs up to $10 per capsule. No generic version is available. As I need four capsules a day, this drug could cost me nearly $1200 a month, nearly my entire Social Security income! I do have a good Medicare Part D insurance plan that would lower the monthly cost to about $240, but even that is a lot of money for me. I do not qualify for Medi-Cal or other subsidies; the government thinks I have too much money, which I find amusing. (Most of my retirement savings were spent long ago for my late husband’s surgeries and hospitalizations—his bills would have come to more than a million dollars without Medicare--but that’s another story.)

In desperation, I plan to order Creon from a drug company in Canada. That is a clunky, slow process, and possibly a risky one, but it looks as if I can get my medicine for about $50 a month. At this point, that actually seems like a bargain.

Considering the enormous amounts that pharmaceutical companies spend on advertising (in JAMA and other medical journals, as well as those irritating TV ads), I think they can well afford to make needed drugs more affordable. Luckily, my illness is not life-threatening, but many people endanger their lives by cutting pills in half, delaying having prescriptions refilled, and by other cost-saving actions. When will Big Pharma and the government wake up and realize they may be killing the geese that lay the golden eggs?

MARGARET MEAD, MARRIAGE, AND ME

Many years ago I read one of cultural anthropologist Margaret Mead’s books (I think it was Blackberry Winter) and found myself amused by her comments on marriage. She thought women should marry three times in their lives—as Mead herself did—the first time for the innocence and passion of young love, the second for a home and stable family life, and the last for having the right person to grow old with. Being young and idealistic at the time myself, I thought her advice was extremely calculating. Now that I am elderly, I understand her wisdom. Though I did not intend to follow in her steps, my life has turned out much as she suggested.

When I was only twenty-one I married my first husband, who had been my college sweetheart and seemed like an ideal marriage prospect. We had a lovely wedding in the college chapel that seemed like the prelude to a long, happy married life. Seven years later we were divorced. Neither of us had been mature enough for the responsibilities of marriage.

In my early thirties I married again, with a more realistic view of what the future might hold. At first we argued often—our personalities were very different—and we even separated for a while, but gradually we achieved a good, stable marriage. Though we were unable to have children, we always had a much-loved Scottish terrier, and usually a cat as well. Over the years we grew closer and closer as we shared happy and sad times. When he became extremely ill with diabetes and heart disease, I was happy to be his caregiver. He died after only thirty-two years, and I grieved for a long time.

Now, in the autumn of my own life, I have had the great fortune of finding the ideal man to grow older with. We would not have appreciated each other at all years ago, partly because I am nine years older than he is. He was a free spirit of the sixties, and at that time I was a very serious textbook editor. We had little in common then. Today, he is the perfect companion--a retired science teacher who is as passionate about the environment as I am, and who also enjoys travel and reading. We both have some health problems, and help each other cope with them. Though we have everything we need, our lifestyle is simple and frugal. Departing a bit from Mead’s plan, we have not married for insurance reasons.

So, in retrospect I have to admit Mead had the right idea. In an ideal world, a couple might go through her three stages together, but longer life spans, divorces, and deaths make that impossible for many of us. In our messy real world, a woman is very lucky if she can find the right three men at the right times!

THE VIEW FROM THE TOILET WINDOW

 

Returning to California from a long cross-country trip, we stopped in South Lake Tahoe for the night. Affordable campgrounds were already filled, of course. Fortunately, we had heard of a casino that allowed RVs to stay all night in their parking lot (probably with the hope that the drivers were unlucky gamblers). We went to the casino and were directed to a narrow spot at the back of the lot, between two behemoths with running generators—not the sort of sylvan spot we ordinarily look for, but it was free, and we were tired. We backed into the space and went to bed.

The next morning we looked out through the windshield at the parking lot, shuddered, and began getting ready to drive off. As I brushed my teeth, I happened to look out the bathroom window, and was delighted to see a lovely evergreen forest behind us, with no casinos or vehicles in sight. Just the sort of view we wanted!

Since then we have seen many beautiful views from our toilet window. Sometimes they are just part of an entire vista to be seen all around us, but often we find them deliberately. It’s part of the strategy of choosing a site—if we must back into the site, as is usually the case, then we make sure that the view behind us is enjoyable. Even if we must stay in a crowded campground with RVs on each side of us, we can usually find a way of framing a decent view in the toilet window. Often it is just a matter of choosing a site at the outer edge of the campground, which also leads to having a quieter, less crowded site.

In the Tuolumne Meadows section of Yosemite National Park, we had a view of the campground host’s rig from the front window, which was less than inspiring. From the toilet window, though, we could see Mount Dana. Not only is the mountain a beautiful sight, but my partner had hiked to the top of it back in the seventies. He can no longer do that much hiking, and seeing it in this way brought back some happy memories.

We paused for a while on the Beartooth Highway in Wyoming to have a picnic lunch and to look at the myriad alpine wildflowers. Soon some bikers appeared outside the toilet window. Though we don’t enjoy the sound of motorcycles, we could hardly begrudge them the pleasure of enjoying the spectacular mountain scenery.

When my plane landed in Winnipeg after an emergency return to California, Thane was waiting for me in the View. He had spent several hours at the airport museum (the museum had a uniquely accessible Lockheed Electra that he was able to tour), and watched one plane from the toilet window.

The day we visited the Hoover Dam in Arizona was rainy and windy, not a pleasant time for standing outside taking photos. Fortunately, the toilet window provided a good view of the new bridge over the dam, lessening the time we needed to brave the elements outdoors.

So, at the end of a road trip, it is depressing to put the RV in the garage and look through the toilet window, where the only view is of shelves laden with paint cans, broken appliances, and other assorted junk. And that helps gives us the motivation to take to the open road again.

 

BOOK CLUB ESCAPE

After moving to El Dorado County I wanted to meet some people with similar interests, as I had done in previous places. This turned out to be harder than I expected, partly because I don’t really fit in here. I am a San Francisco Bay liberal; the majority of people here are conservative Republicans, Tea Party members, NRA supporters. I am a Unitarian; the closest Unitarian church is an hour’s drive away. Though that might be all right on Sunday mornings, it is in the evenings that conspiracies are hatched and friendships are formed. (I can no longer drive after dark.) Most Sierra Club hikes are too strenuous for me. Having worked for fifty years, I had no intention of looking for a job! The closest library branch needed volunteers; I tried that for a while and enjoyed it, but our travels make it hard for me to commit to any schedule. That also eliminated many other possibilities for volunteer work.

We spend much time in the library anyway when we are not traveling, and one day I noticed that the county library has a book club that meets once a month in the morning. That made me hesitate. My picture of book clubs has always been of uneducated readers reading lightweight books and making inane comments, or of members using the club as an excuse for gossiping about local events and drinking a lot of wine. However, I was getting desperate for intelligent companionship. (My partner provides a lot of it, but I was eager to meet other women.) So, I attended the next book club meeting to see just how bad it was.

It was a pleasant surprise. About a dozen intelligent people gathered to discuss that month’s selection. One of the librarians, Tamela Entrikin, was the leader. She had thought carefully about the book and, like a skilled teacher, encouraged us to comment without dominating the discussion herself or letting us wander too far onto other subjects. Tamela gave me a list of the books to be read in coming months. While I had read a couple of them, the rest were unfamiliar titles or books I wanted to read. Traveling would not be a problem, as members often cannot attend for various reasons. Thanks to my Nook, I could even download books on the club’s list and read them while traveling.

That was three years ago. Since then I have enjoyed getting to know the other members and reading many of the books. Though of course some have been on topics that did not interest me, in general I have liked rediscovering old favorites or being introduced to unfamiliar authors. If not for the book club, for instance, I probably would have not read Marja Mills’ The Mockingbird Next Door, which led to my interest in the Harper Lee mystery. (My last post gave the details.) Our reading Olive Kitteridge introduced me to Elizabeth Stroud. Being a retired science writer, I have been disappointed that we read too few science-related books, but you can’t have everything. I can find those books on my own.

Perhaps the greatest benefit, though, has been meeting compatible people. El Dorado County, though a cultural backwater in some respects, does have a friendly, knowledgeable community within it. I am grateful to have found it.

THE MYSTERY OF HARPER LEE

For me, the quest began with my book club. Someone in the group suggested that we read Marja Mills’ The Mockingbird Next Door, the story of Mills’ living next door to Harper and Alice Lee in Monroeville, Alabama, as she gathered material to write about Harper for a Chicago Tribune article.

Harper, of course, is the reclusive author of To Kill a Mockingbird, the Pulitzer Prize winning novel about racial prejudice and social classes in small-town Alabama in the thirties. Until going into assisted living several years ago, Harper divided her life between a New York apartment and the house in Alabama that she shared with her older sister, Alice. (Alice died late in 2014, at the age of 103; Harper is 88.) Alice, a practicing lawyer into her nineties, was the first sister to meet Mills, and they rapidly became friendly. According to Mills, both granted her extensive interviews, told her many things off the record, and knew she would be writing a book. She went to local restaurants with them and met their friends.

Mills’ book captivated me and made me curious about Harper herself as well as about To Kill a Mockingbird. For some reason I had never read the book, though I had seen the fine movie with Gregory Peck starring as Atticus Finch, a courageous lawyer who defied the restrictive customs and bigotry of his town by defending a black man who was accused of raping a white girl.  (Finch is based on Harper and Alice’s own father.) So, I got the book from the library and read it along with The Mockingbird Next Door. Better late than never—it is wonderful.

For about fifty years readers have wondered why Harper never wrote another book. She has been somewhat vague about her reasons, alluding to her abhorrence for publicity and her feeling that she had said what she had to say in Mockingbird. Those reasons make perfect sense to me, but few others (including Mills) are satisfied. There have been many questions about her, many intrusions into her privacy.

In 2011 Harper denied authorizing the Mills book, saying Mills had befriended her elder sister and then taken advantage of Alice’s kindness. The story grows murky at that point. Harper had a stroke in 2007; did her personality or memory change, making her turn against Mills after encouraging her to write the book? Some acquaintances have said that she is greatly changed since the stroke; others,  that she is as sharp as a tack.  Was Harper so weary of publicity that she reneged on an agreement at the last minute? Or, did Mills actually write far more about the Lees than they intended?

Last week another surprising twist in the story appeared. Go Set a Watchman, a manuscript that Harper wrote before Mockingbird, has been discovered. It is similar to Mockingbird, but written from the adult viewpoint of Scout (Atticus Finch’s daughter).  Her editor at Lippincott, Tay Hohoff,  persuaded her to revise the manuscript so that it is told from Scout’s point of view as a child. Some massive changes must have been needed! Harper has issued a statement (through her current publisher, HarperCollins, which is rushing the book into print) expressing her delight that it still exists.

Tonja B. Carter, Harper’s attorney, says the manuscript came to light as she was going through papers in her office—the office where Alice had formerly practiced. According to Mills, Alice was organized and disciplined, but Harper was not. Alice handled Harper’s legal and financial affairs for many years, and no doubt dealt with Lippincott. If Hohoff had returned the Go Set a Watchman manuscript to Harper, Alice would likely have ended up with it. Thinking Harper might one day regret not writing another novel, Alice might have prudently set it aside in a file to be opened only after her death. The timing seems suspect to me: Alice died in late 2014, and the manuscript had turned up earlier that year. Someone may have assumed Alice was going to die soon and opened the file a bit early.


All of this is my speculation as a veteran mystery reader, of course. I have no connection to the Lee family, and no inside knowledge of the situation. (I did live in the Yorkville area of New York in 1970, when Harper was living there also.) But, what a mystery story! We may never know why Harper chose not to write another book. I rather hope that she has confided her reasons (assuming they amount to more than what she has claimed) to a friend or to a secret journal that can be opened after her own death.