PARADISE ON EARTH

Regrettably, we were able to spend only a couple of days at Arches National Park on our return from New Mexico in 2010. Driving into the park at sunset, we gazed at balanced rocks, towering hoodoos, and natural arches glowing in the russet and orange light.

The next morning we took the wrong hiking trail by a lucky mistake, so we avoided the hordes of tourists near Landscape Arch and Delicate Arch, and walked to Broken Arch  by ourselves. Being alone in windswept canyon country is important for fully appreciating its stark beauty. Edward Abbey was happy when he spent two seasons here by himself as a park ranger, but dreaded the inevitable time when broad, paved roads would be constructed, allowing many tourists—like us—to invade the park in their RVs and SUVs. In fact, he felt no new roads should be built in the national parks, and visitors should walk most of the time.

Though Arches and other national parks in the Southwest are spectacularly beautiful, they strike me too much as being Earth’s skeleton, providing structure without nourishment. The parks I love most are rich in water, the blood of Gaia. Yosemite, Crater Lake, and Yellowstone glisten with waterfalls, cataracts, and lakes or rivers that bring water and nutrients to surrounding plants and animals.

Even Abbey needed to leave the desert at times and spend time in forests and near water. Before Glen Canyon was dammed to create Lake Powell, he and a friend rafted down the Colorado River, exploring it as few since John Wesley Powell had done. Abbey’s elegiac description of now-gone Glen Canyon makes it sound like paradise—in fact, he said in Desert Solitaire that wilderness is “all the paradise we need.”

We still have that earthly paradise, in spite of the crowded campgrounds and gift shops that spoil parts of the national parks. It is still possible to pull on a pair of hiking boots, walk for half an hour or so, and find ourselves in wilderness. As Jefferson and others said in another context, though, eternal vigilance is the price of liberty. We need not only to support the national parks, but also to defend their wildness.

WE DON'T GET NO RESPECT!

As the late Rodney Dangerfield used to lament, we “don’t get no respect!” Waiting in a doctor’s office one day, I heard him say to a patient in the next room, “Doctor wants to know you had a good poop!” He wasn’t speaking to a three-year-old, but to a dignified old woman. Why aren’t doctors—and others—taught to treat the elderly as adults? The New York Times columnist Jane Brody refers to the problem as “elderspeak”—speaking to old people as if they were senile, stone deaf, or otherwise unable to comprehend normal speech.

For many years I was my mother’s caregiver, taking her to various appointments. Too often, a doctor or nurse would ask me questions about her, as if she were not even in the room. She was rightfully very resentful. Eventually my help became necessary, when she became obviously deaf and demented, but until that time she deserved more respect.

Physicians are some of the worst offenders; they seem to feel entitled to address patients of all ages by their first names, but expect to be addressed as “Doctor.” I have a hard-earned PhD, but am always called “Carol.” (One wonderful doctor, the late Jay Gershow, stood up when I first entered his office, and said, “I’m Jay.” I stayed with him for more than 30 years.) Not only the doctors themselves, but also their assistants and receptionists, use patients’ first names. Nursing homes today seem to do a better job of training their staffs in this respect—many of the nurses where my mother lived actually addressed her as Mrs. Beall, rather than Isabelle.  It was a refreshing change.

In stores, I’m sometimes called “Dear,” “Young lady,” or “Sweetheart,” even by much younger clerks. How can I respond without seeming like an old grouch? It is much like the quandary faced by women who object to sexist comments—they are ridiculed as being humorless or overly thin-skinned. Once a woman customer insisted on taking the items out of my grocery cart and putting them on the counter for me, ignoring my protestations that I didn’t need help. If I appeared frail, there might have been a reason for her doing so, but I look reasonably healthy and strong.

A related problem in stores is the lack of privacy. When I bought incontinence supplies for my mother, why weren’t they in plain wrappers? Why did I have to bear pitying glances from other customers in line who obviously thought the diapers were for myself?

I’m not getting any younger, of course. At the age of 75, I am beginning to feel, um, well ripened. Occasionally I am grateful when a strong young man lifts something heavy for me, or gives me a seat on a wobbling bus. I’m in no hurry to become decrepit, though. Please treat me with kindness but respect.

THE DEMONS OF OUR NATURE

Steven Pinker’s new 800-page book, The Better Angels of our Nature, is a real shocker. Pinker’s main point is that, evil as the present may appear, things in the past were much worse. In gruesome detail, he describes the horrible things humans have done to each other throughout history. After the first 100 pages, I stopped reading and looking at the illustrations of tortures, and skimmed the remainder of the book.

Pinker ends the book with some cautious optimism about the future. Perhaps we will continue on a path toward more humane and rational treatment of each other, guided by rationality and the need to survive.

I am skeptical. When we can push a button to destroy a city without seeing the carnage that results, are we any better than medieval executioners who watched their victims slowly dying on the rack? Are we not simply objectifying those we kill, treating them like avatars in a video game? Are we not still murderers?

We are slowly ruining our planet, also. Population biologists like Paul Ehrlich have warned since the sixties that for survival the world population must be controlled, but for some reason I can’t fathom, it has become politically incorrect to urge women to use birth control. At the same time, “pro-life” groups have fought against Planned Parenthood because their clinics offer abortion in addition to contraception. Apparently these groups are willing to allow unwanted children to be born to parents who cannot afford them, and some women forced to bear children resulting from  rape or incest. To me, that attitude is truly evil.

Sometimes we seem to be lurching back into the Dark Ages. As recently as the 1950s, when I was in high school in a conservative area of rural Michigan, the theory of evolution through natural selection was widely accepted in most of the country. No one was forced to believe the theory, but we were expected to know the scientific evidence that supported it. The Scopes “monkey trial” was just an amusing bit of history. Today creationists all over the country make it difficult for biology teachers to present the theory that unifies their field and that has been accepted by the scientific community since the late nineteenth century.

Voltaire,  that brilliant philosopher of the eighteenth-century Enlightenment, spoke through his Candide that this is not at all the “best of all possible worlds.” After traveling the world and experiencing much of the depravity Pinker describes, Candide went home to “make his garden grow.” He recognized how much irreparable evil and ignorance surrounds us, and contented himself with trying to live his own life with honor and decency. Voltaire himself fought against religious intolerance and injustice throughout his life, at times being banished from France or imprisoned.

I am as saddened by the stupidity and evil of modern life as I am horrified by the wickedness of the past as described by Pinker. As we sang in the sixties, “When will we ever learn?” Voltaire had it right, though. We may not be able to change quickly or on a large scale, but as individuals we can work for social justice and for rational approaches to life; and perhaps if our species survives for a few more centuries we can change into the beings we are capable of becoming.

RV ENVIRONMENTALISTS

 

Knowing we are environmentalists, friends sometimes look amused when we announce we are planning another trip in the RV. How, they wonder, can we justify using all those fossil fuels and polluting the air with carbon compounds?

They have a point. We try to minimize the environmental damage as much as possible. Our 24’ Sprinter-based motorhome (which uses gasoline rather than diesel) gets about 13 mpg, very low compared with most autos, but high in comparison with larger rigs. When we can, we take the shortest route to destinations (though often we choose scenic routes). If a campground close to home is as appealing as one farther away, we choose the nearer one. We seldom tow anything—our inflatable kayak was carried on the Suzuki just once, but usually travels under the dinette table—to keep the RV as light as we can. As it is only 24’ long, we can drive into rather small parking spaces, and we don’t usually need to have a dinghy. Yosemite, Glacier, and some other national parks provide buses for visitors; our rig can stay in the campground. By having our own “apartment” with us, we can stay out of elaborate resorts and campgrounds that are like small towns, and stay in Forest Service campgrounds, where there has been little despoiling of the natural environment.

The propane used for heating and refrigeration goes surprisingly far, probably because the rig’s interior is small. We avoid using the microwave oven, doing most cooking in a Dutch oven on the stovetop, which also heats the interior somewhat. If we happen to have electrical hookups, a tiny ceramic heater keeps us warm without using propane. Of course, then we are using electricity; we balance that use with reading rather than watching TV. Occasionally we take wood from our home in the forest to make a campfire, if we are not going far. (Wood can harbor insects that might be invasive in other areas.) We keep the refrigerator and freezer very full, minimizing the number of shopping trips and making refrigeration as efficient as possible. When stopping for the night, we always use simple leveling blocks, which also maximizes the refrigerator’s efficiency. (This can be annoying, but is important.)

Being a coffee addict, I have to make a special effort to conserve electricity. Water is heated in a camper’s teakettle, then poured through coffee in a Melitta filter cone. If I don’t drink the coffee immediately, I save it in a thermos to avoid having to reheat it. Yet, some campers say they _must_ use their microwaves for reheating coffee!

Knowing that the fresh water tank holds only 35 gallons, which must do for showers, toilet-flushing, cooking, and cleanup, we are extremely frugal with water. Our showers are the Navy type—rinse off quickly, turn off the water, soap up, rinse again quickly, turn off the water! Or, we may take sponge baths. Yogurt containers in the shower and on the counters hold warmup water for later uses. We try to dry-camp most of the time, and use the vault toilets rather than our water-consuming toilet. Cooking and dishwashing are done with the smallest amounts of water possible, but we do use our lightweight Corelle dishes rather than disposable plastics. We wash and re-use aluminum foil, cover dishes with saucers instead of plastic wrap, and save glass and aluminum for later recycling. I always feel smug when dropping a tiny litter bag (if anything) into a campground’s Dumpster, seeing the gigantic bags inside.

My companion is an enthusiastic user of solar energy, both at home and while traveling. This means hauling a solar panel with us and hooking it up to the batteries; in sunny weather it provides enough electricity for us. In fact, we only use the generator during extreme heat waves, when air conditioning is a necessity. Only one light is on at a time, and the TV is usually off. We do use the radio, which uses a very small amount of electricity.

Though we prefer dry-camping, our small tanks limit us to doing so for about three days at a time. After that, we must look for a campground with hookups. Even there, we avoid wasting electricity and water. The sustainable habits imposed during dry-camping serve us well when resources seem more plentiful, as well as when we go home again.

THE BROKEN MAGIC WAND

I have been a widow for nearly ten years now. Like most widows, I felt too grief-stricken to go on alone for a while, but gradually accepted my loss and have made a new and very different life for myself. Many memories, though, are permanent.

My late husband, Harold, was a talented amateur magician. Several times during our marriage he mentioned that when he died, he wanted me to arrange a magician’s broken wand ceremony. It sounded a little bizarre to me, but after his death I wanted to honor his wish, though wondering nervously how the rabbi would react. The president of the local International Brotherhood of Magicians ring promised to perform the ceremony and asked me to provide one of Harold’s magic wands for it. Would this be an embarrassing parody of a normal service? The neighborhood florist also wanted to provide flowers in a top hat with a rabbit; I drew the line there.

The memorial service began traditionally, with the rabbi’s reading some prayers in Hebrew and speaking about Harold. Then it was the magician's turn. He read some lines that I found surprisingly moving, so I relaxed and concentrated on listening. Finally, he held up the wand and read, “The magic of earth is over. The magic and mystery of another realm awaits Harold and will be revealed,” as he broke the wand in half. I heard some gasps from behind me and wondered what caused them. Later, someone told me that just as the wand was broken, a door at the side of the chapel opened silently, but no one was there. Then it slowly closed again. It was as if Harold were saying goodbye.

I am a rational person, trained in biology—I am not at all superstitious! In the weeks that followed, however, there were other strange happenings. Harold’s best magic trick had been what magicians call the cups and balls, an elaborate version of a shell game. He would quickly move the cups around, then lift them to reveal balls and other objects that no one expected. One evening when I was playing with our dog Mac (a Scotty who had been Harold’s devoted companion), the dog was listlessly batting around some rubber balls. And then, suddenly, he was pushing a bright red ball toward me, a ball I had never seen before. I swear he was grinning at me.

Another night, I was lying in bed unable to sleep. Then I smelled a unique, foul smell that could have come only from the cigars Harold had smoked. (But I had gleefully destroyed those cigars!) The odor became very strong, as if someone was walking past the house, then gradually faded away. I looked out the window but saw no one.

Harold’s old Mercedes stopped running the day he died, so the next week I went to see Dave the Mechanic. When I drove in, Dave turned white as a sheet and said, “Harold is dead, isn’t he?” It turned out that at the moment Harold was dying, Dave suddenly knew it, but had told himself he was imagining things until he saw me.

For the next few months, I heard—or imagined—Harold speaking to me several times. Then I regained my equilibrium, and there were no more “supernatural” events. I have always laughed at stories like this, but now I am not so sure!

I LOVE A MYSTERY

For about fifty years, I have been a mystery addict. It began with spending long evenings in the public library in Evanston, Illinois, which had a vast collection of Agatha Christies and John Dickson Carrs. I read through them in short order. Though a few mystery writers are more than lightweight—Dorothy Sayers especially comes to mind—in most cases I read the books more as puzzles than as literature. I relish watching for important clues, making hypotheses about whodunit, and piecing together the answer before Ellery Queen or Lord Peter Wimsey announces it.

As many scientists have pointed out, their work is often detective-like. They make many observations, watch for facts that don’t fit expected patterns, make and test hypotheses. Over time and many experiments, a broad theory may emerge. Much of my own science writing (mainly for middle- and high school students) emphasizes the mystery-solving aspects of science. One of my favorite—and unfortunately unpublished—books was called Who Killed the Neanderthals?

There is an important difference between detective fiction and science, though: In a well-written whodunit, all the clues are wrapped up neatly by the last page. There is no mystery left to solve. In science, the “detectives” can reach a tentative conclusion as the result of experimentation, but their conclusion is subject to further testing by other scientists, and it may be disproved. In fact, that is the exciting thing about science. New observations and experimental results can lead to new hypotheses. The Neanderthals are a good example: Seen at one time as brutish creatures having no relation to modern humans, they have gone through several reassessments as new fossil evidence and DNA studies have emerged. They may still not be completely understood. And so, I will go on reading about the Neanderthals—sharing the excitement about new clues, wondering whether that particular mystery has finally been solved.

IMPORTANT CHOICES

A couple of years ago we traveled nearly across the country. It took us three months, because we stopped many times and traveled at a leisurely pace. (For the details, you can order our A Hundred Nights in a Cab-Over Bed from stonecottage2@juno.com.) There were some very sad interludes—I had to go home for a while when my mother died—but overall the trip was a peak experience for both of us. We saw waterfalls, mountains, and cities, visited wonderful museums, met interesting people. Though we had hoped to reach Maine in time to see fall color, we didn’t make it. In the eastern part of New York state, we decided it was time to turn south and to begin the long journey home to California.

Could we possibly travel that far again? We still yearn to see the leaves turn red in Maine; seeing sunset colors together there is for some reason very important to us. Of course, Maine would be just the main goal. We could visit my friends in the Midwest, revisit some of the places we loved last time, see new sights that we missed then. On the other hand, there are things we need to do at home. My companion’s solar home is still unfinished 22 years after he began building it; I want to landscape both homes with native plants that can survive future neglect; I could really use an iPad and a new computer! Neither of us has much money, and traveling always uses up funds that may be needed elsewhere.

Since our last RV journey, there have been some changes in our lives. Many old friends have become ill. One has Alzheimer’s, others have died or been sickened by circulatory diseases or cancer. My mother lived a long, full life, but her last few years were spent in dementia and physical illness. We have our own health problems that may worsen at any time.

Maybe finishing the native-plant gardens and carpeting the living room should wait a while. They can be tackled when we can’t travel any more. And if we die or become bedridden before finishing those jobs, someone else can worry about them.

So, we probably will take another cross-country trip. We will spend whatever we have to, trusting to fate that we can manage financially afterward. This time we will reach Maine and see fall color!

ENTERTAINMENT THEN AND NOW

Some time back in the seventies, Placido Domingo sang the title role in Tales of Hoffmann at the Lyric Opera in Chicago. As if that glorious tenor voice weren’t enough, that was a blockbuster performance. When a nearly full-size train engine rolled onstage, the audience rose to their feet and cheered. Of the many operatic and theatrical performances I saw during 50 years of urban life, that one stands out above all the rest.

Living in New York in 1970, I had taken full advantage of entertainment there: There were the Metropolitan Opera, Lincoln Center, and the many theaters. I heard a lot of jazz and even met Dizzy Gillespie.

In Chicago, we attended performances at Lyric Opera, the Goodman Theater, and the Chicago Symphony. My husband and I lived for a time in Old Town on the near north side of the city, where we spent many evenings at the Old Town School of Folk Music and the Earl of Old Town saloon, listening to Steve Goodman, Bonnie Koloc, and other talented local musicians. In the sixties we had seen the original Second City troupe, featuring the matchless Severn Darden .  Like New York, Chicago was a feast of entertainment.

When we went to London, during an overwhelming week of theater we saw Angela Lansbury, Ralph Richardson, and John Gielgud at laughably low prices. At the D’Oyly Carte, John Reed sang the patter songs in Gilbert & Sullivan’s Pirates of Penzance.

After all that, San Francisco was a letdown, but we made do. The excellent Savoyards at Stanford provided some great performances. There were occasional evenings at the War Memorial Opera House and the Louise Davies Symphony Hall. Just a few weeks before his death, I pushed my husband’s wheelchair to the opera house so he could hear Frederica von Stade sing in Die Fledermaus; sadly, she had the flu and could not appear that night.

That fiasco may have been the last straw for me. Yes, I loved the urban life we led, but I was already in my sixties, and it was becoming hard to find entertainment that was affordable and satisfying. My husband was very ill and no longer able to leave home easily. So, after his death I cut back greatly on trips to The City (do they still call San Francisco that?).

Now, living in rural El Dorado County, I scarcely ever go to theaters or concerts—and don’t miss them. My companion and I contentedly rent movies from Netflix, watch television, listen to CDs, and read books. Especially when traveling we do go to many museum exhibits, some of which have actually improved over the years; others seem too flashy and child-oriented. When I do attend something that seems like a necessary cultural event, it is usually disappointing. Whether entertainment has changed or I have simply grown old, modern plays and music never seem comparable to those of years ago. I still hope to hear Domingo again, though!

NO MORE COMMUTING

It’s fun now to listen to the morning traffic reports on KQED. Sitting with a cup of coffee and looking out over a forested canyon, I hear reports of backups from the Oakland–San Francisco Bay Bridge stretching miles to the Maze (the mass of intertwined highways in the middle of Oakland). Commuters to San Francisco from the East Bay are no doubt creeping along, looking nervously at the clock, and wondering if they can possibly get to work on time.

Though I switched from honest work to freelance writing and editing years ago, there was a time when I had to join other commuters in the daily rush hours. The only pleasant commute I ever found was that on the Alameda/Oakland ferry, a ride across San Francisco Bay taking about half an hour—long enough to read a newspaper and drink a cup of coffee. (At night, I could unwind with a glass of wine instead. Even better.) That continued only during a short writing job, though.

The worst commute of my life was through Chicago. Somehow I had gotten into the predicament of living in Park Forest, a suburb about 50 miles south of the city, and working in Skokie, one of the northwest suburbs. The drive first took me up the Dan Ryan Expressway, perhaps the most horrendous expressway in the country. About a dozen lanes wide, passing through some of the ugliest parts of Chicago. In summer the heat was stifling, in winter snow and ice were constant problems. Leaving the Dan Ryan, I got on Lake Shore Drive (fondly known as LSD to locals) and moved on toward the northern suburbs. The view of Lake Michigan from LSD was enjoyable, but that didn’t last very long. The entire wretched drive took about two hours in each direction. Traveling by train and bus instead would have meant waiting on train platforms and street corners in all kinds of weather. (Just before we finally moved to California, my fingers were frostbitten while I waited for a bus that never came.)

So, today I can settle back in comfort and listen to those traffic reports. A fender-bender on the Nimitz Freeway, a spill of a mysterious white substance on Route 280, a major pileup on the Bay Bridge. Retirement—it’s marvelous!

DIARY OF A FAT KID

As a toddler I was chubby but cute. It wasn’t until about the third grade that I gained a lot of weight and became genuinely fat. For years afterward other kids teased me or ignored me, causing a lot of misery. Though never obese by the standards of today, I was never slim enough to look good or to be athletic. In college—one of the happiest times of my life—I slimmed down a little and started dating, even meeting the young man who would become my first husband. When we became engaged I deliberately bought a wedding dress that was too small, and managed to fit into it for the wedding.

For the next few years, I remained at a normal weight by dieting much too much, risking my health. Occasionally it was too much for me, though. I can remember some low points like the time I stood in front of the fridge eating an irresistible piece of chocolate cake, with tears of frustration running down my face. As time passed, and I worked long days in an editorial office without getting enough exercise or knowing how to diet, my weight crept up. And then, a brand new weight-control program called Weight Watchers appeared. I decided to give it a try.

The original Weight Watchers program was draconian: Foods were either “legal” or “illegal.” Illegal foods like candy, pie, and ice cream were forbidden completely. Legal foods were permitted only in very definite amounts: for example, every dinner was to include four to six ounces of meat (usually chicken or fish): three servings of fruit and two cups of skim milk were allowed each day; and we could have only two slices of bread a day. Only vegetables could be eaten profusely.

Remembering the rules was fairly easy; following them was harder. However, after the first week or two on the program, for the first time in years I didn’t feel hungry. In fact, the foods were very satisfying. For me, avoiding illegal foods entirely turned out to be easier than eating small amounts of them.

Eventually I lost about 20 pounds by following the Weight Watchers program. Like many of their alumni, I gained some weight back in later years, especially when I went through menopause. However, I had learned to eat sensibly, and never returned to dangerous dieting. Today my weight is 118 pounds—40 pounds less than it was in my teens. Thank you, Jean Nidetch!

Some Weight Watchers lessons were permanent:

·      Choosing the right foods is more important than counting calories.

·      Some foods are very hazardous for anyone not wanting to gain weight.

·      Planning and self-discipline make it possible to eat properly, even when you are surrounded by tempting foods.

·      Measuring foods is important; it’s too easy to misjudge the size of a “serving.”

·      Nonfattening foods can be delicious!

·      Avoid restaurants when possible.

In the years since, I have learned additional weight loss secrets from other sources, such as magazine articles and books; perhaps most important, exercise has become a major part of my life. Though unathletic, I have become an enthusiastic walker, even hiking mountain trails as well as rambling along city streets.

Getting fat as a child was unnecessary. I was basically healthy, simply a rather lazy and bookish kid. If someone had coached me in choosing the right foods and getting enough exercise—in adopting the life style I have today—I would have stayed at a normal weight and established permanent healthy habits.

I can’t undo my own early struggles with weight control, but I have tried to help today’s children, who may need more help with resisting environmental influences than I did. Today kids are continually bombarded with advertising for giant burgers, may have less opportunities for walking and bicycling, and spend much time in front of computer screens. (I grew up when TV was rare, when fast food was a new idea, and long before the computer age.) In spite of that, they can learn the variety of strategies I have learned. In my workbook written for tweens, Take Charge, I provided a series of activities that can help children stay at a normal weight. While the workbook is an organized presentation, with space for keeping records, my overall free message is this: Yes, you live in an environment that often leads to weight gain, but you don’t have to be controlled by it. You can take charge of the situation!

For me, staying at a normal weight has become the natural outcome of a healthy life style. I eat lots of protein (my companion is a vegetarian, so I eat meat or fish only about once a week), vegetables and fruit, and milk. Every day I walk or get other exercise for about 45 minutes. None of this is difficult. Though eating simply can get a little boring, being at the right weight is a great motivator, which should appeal to children as much as it does to me.