FEAR OF KAYAKING

I enjoy being on the water--in ferry boats and similar stable vehicles, that is. Even rowboats and canoes are enjoyable providing the water is smooth. But I am really spooked by kayaks.

When did it start? Probably back in the eighties, when I was persuaded to go whitewater rafting in Colorado. The raft trip itself through rocks and cascades was terrifying enough, but the sight of a kayak turning upside down in the rapids, and the man in it desperately trying to right himself with an eskimo roll, panicked me.

A couple of years ago my partner cajoled me into getting an inflatable two-person kayak that we could take with us in the RV. It travels under the dinette table quite well, almost leaving room for our feet. In theory it is the perfect boat for RVers, being light and portable. In practice it is my bête noire. I have always found an excuse to stay out of it, encouraging Thane to paddle about alone. (He has greatly enjoyed it.)

This couldn’t last forever. Recently we were staying at a lovely streamside campground in Maine, with a small boat dock right next to our camp site. The weather was fine, we had nothing else to do, and I could think of no excuse. So, we inflated the kayak and climbed in. Or, I should say Thane climbed in, and I started to. The kayak put out to sea while I clung to a post on the dock until my grip loosened and I fell into the water. Luckily, the water was shallow, but it was muddy and cold. Never again!

 

THE TWO FACES OF MAINE

Let me say this first: I love Maine. Until our current trip to the east coast, I had spent virtually no time in the state. My hazy picture of it was based on textbook descriptions of the “spruce–moose biome,” Sierra Club photos, L.L. Bean catalogs, and Sarah Orne Jewett’s Country of the Pointed Firs. I knew that George Bush the Elder and his family spent their summers in Kennebunkport, along with other wealthy families who had summered there since the nineteenth century. Perhaps the most widespread image of Maine is that of fall color, of scarlet maples mixed with deep green pines and silver birches.

We have wanted for years to travel to Maine in the fall, and this year we finally managed to do so. Being an AstroVIP with the National Park Service, Thane planned to help a little with setting up telescopes for Acadia National Park’s annual Night Sky Festival, and I would accompany him to do anything I could. The program takes place during the last few days of September, peak time for fall color.

Our visit to Acadia—unfortunately cut short by the Republicans’ taking it hostage during the current government crisis—confirmed that picture. We spent several days touring Acadia and taking part in the Night Sky Festival, then drove south. The entire rocky coast is as beautiful as I could have imagined, with hundreds of inlets from the Atlantic leading to boreal forests. Much of the inland countryside, too, resembled the rural scenes in Andrew Wyeth’s paintings. Even many of the dilapidated barns looked beautiful.

There is another Maine, though, one not shown in the tourist brochures or in any novels I’ve read. When we drove through the north–central part of the state, we saw a poor area rivaling many urban slums. I had expected some picturesque poverty, based on news reports—neglected homes, unpainted barns, and so on, and those were certainly present. But, much of the countryside seems deserted, with old homes and barns collapsing and subsiding into the earth. Where did everyone go? What really appalled me was the trash surrounding so many places that had apparently been simply abandoned. How can anyone treat their environment  that way? Have they lost all self-respect?

Life in Maine has never been easy; farmers had to work hard to make a living from the rocky soil in bad weather. But, they managed to do so in the past. Has the soil been exhausted by poor farming practices? Has the logging that once helped support farming ceased? I suspect that many farmers blame a government that they feel is too liberal, and environmentalists like us, for somehow taking away their right to use the land as they see fit. (Certainly we heard complaints about limits on hunting, and about gun control in general.) That doesn’t explain the sad, neglectful picture we saw. 

WE’LL ALWAYS HAVE WALMART

 

It was nearly midnight on Saturday, but firecrackers were still exploding near us. We had made the mistake of staying overnight too near a college, and some boozy fraternity boys were celebrating something or other. Another time, a noisy football game was starting up in the parking lot in the middle of the night.

As this shows, staying overnight at Walmart—sometimes called “blacktop boondocking”—can be annoying or even hazardous.  There are many other reasons as well to stay elsewhere: traffic on nearby streets is often noisy, there are no campground showers, and even the toilets may not be available before 8:00 AM. As an environmentalist, I have been extremely unhappy with the expansion of big-box stores, too. Why should I take advantage of the parking spaces they provide?

However, it is nearly impossible to resist the many plusses of parking overnight at Walmart. First, it is free! Camping for more than a few nights, even in low-cost campgrounds, can become expensive. The ubiquitous Walmart stores are often easy to find, and the parking lots tend to be more level than those in campgrounds. (We grow very tired of leveling our rig with leveling blocks.) The bright lights and security at Walmarts protect us as well as the stores. Shopping for common items there is easy; I have sometimes found RV supplies that are identical to those at Camping World at a lower price.

So, we often find ourselves at Camp Walmart. Usually the landscape leaves something to be desired, but occasionally it is attractive. The store in Scranton is on a bluff overlooking a valley; I remember watching the moon rise as lights were coming on in the houses below us. Some other stores are near wooded areas, and by careful positioning we can sit at the dinette and look out  at that view.

Perhaps our worst experience was in a store near our home in California. We had had some repair work done late in the day, and to avoid driving home at night we stopped at Walmart. We checked for signs forbidding overnight parking, found none, and fell asleep. In the middle of the night we heard a commotion just outside, and some loud talking in Spanish. Peeking out showed us a crane with some workers high up on it painting a lamppost and hanging one of those “No Overnight Parking” signs on it.  We played possum and hoped they would not drip paint on our rig. Luckily, they did not, and in the morning we made our escape.

Though many of the Walmarts seem to welcome RVers, some do forbid staying overnight. Municipal ordinances, rather than Walmart, may be responsible. The store that seemed most adamant about this issue is the one near Gettysburg, where huge signs warned of dire consequences that included being towed away. We paid attention and stayed at an expensive campground instead.

The infrequent antipathy toward RVers may have something to do with the boorish behavior of some of us. We have watched, incredulous, as people have spread huge Class A motorhomes across six or seven parking spaces. Others have unrolled their awnings, unfolded their lawn chairs, and barbecued in the parking lot. People like that may cause so much irritation that all of us are banned, which would be a shame.

We try instead to be as unobtrusive as possible, even after checking with the management to make sure we are welcome. That means staying in travel mode—not putting out the slide or raising the TV antenna, and looking like shoppers rather than like campers. We always buy some groceries or other items, and may have breakfast in the store if a McDonald’s is in it. Our small motorhome easily fits in two spaces.

Yes, we would prefer staying in national forests and parks, with intermittent stops at places having hookups for electricity when necessary. Walmart helps fill in the gaps between more desirable places, though. It’s a bit like McDonald’s—not too helpful for the environment and a possible contributor to the obesity epidemic, but a cheap source of clean toilets and orange juice.

 

 

ON THE ROAD AGAIN

The bag of recyclables was in the middle of the aisle again, and I kicked it in frustration. After being on the road for a month in the RV, I was tired of the inevitable clutter and lack of enough storage space. At home, we have a cabinet that is dedicated to various recyclables, and another that holds trash.

Much as I enjoy RV travel, I must admit there are times when I long to get off the road for a while, to return to a better-ordered life. Though I am far from a perfect housekeeper, at home I do have more space for storing things, and more time for housework. The laundry doesn’t pile up (and certainly doesn’t sit in a duffel bag in the shower until it gets moldy, as can happen when we are traveling!). I do the dishes every morning, rather than leaving them in the sink to conserve water. I’d like more opportunities for personal care, too. I’d like to shampoo my hair on the same day when I need to, and take a shower whenever I get dirty.

Another thing I miss is the El Dorado County Library, where I belong to an enjoyable book club and hang out often to read magazines and newspapers as well as to check out books and videos. Not having yet invested in an e-book reader, I sometimes run out of reading material when we travel—and for me, that is a major problem. There simply isn’t space in our RV for more than a few paperbacks.

Keeping up with world events on the road is difficult, too. (I’d be lost without NPR.) Unless I have wi-fi on a Tuesday, I am liable to miss The New York Times’ weekly Science Times. Finding the print version would be even better, but that often isn’t possible. At home, I would simply walk down the hill to the local newsstand to buy it.

I miss the sociability of life at home, too. I’m far from being a party animal, but do enjoy talking with neighbors, salespersons, and so on. It’s nice to chat with people I meet often in everyday life. Because of our travels, I see too little of friends and family in California.

On the other hand, one advantage of RV life is the opportunity to visit old friends in other parts of the country. Many people of our age seem to travel very little, and so the RV can take me to them. I can visit my old college campus, go back to cities where I once lived. In spite of the irritating aspects of living for months in an RV, at this time of my life it seems preferable to staying at home. And so, I hope to go on roving about for as long as possible, until old age or illness prevents it. There will likely be time enough for staying home in a tidy house and remembering with nostalgia what it was like to travel in an RV.

REMEMBERING JANE

In 1971 I returned to Chicago after a couple of years in New York. Rand McNally was much the same as when I had worked there in the sixties, but they had just acquired the Lyons & Carnahan company, and brought in their editors.

One of their editors, Jane Robinson, was ten years younger than I, and at that tumultuous time we should have been on opposite sides of the generation gap. Surprisingly, Jane and I hit it off immediately. We were both feminists, political liberals, and voracious readers. (We also tended to have a critical view of the world, and to broadcast our opinions.) Jane was a bright, hardworking editor whose talent was probably wasted on the social studies textbooks she worked on.

Jane was a perfectionist, which made her an excellent writer and editor. It affected other aspects of her life as well. I used to tease her about what I thought was her obsessive approach to shopping—then saw her furnish and decorate a series of beautiful homes. More importantly, Jane was a warm, humorous woman who made many friends easily.

Soon after we met, both Jane and I married. I had come back from New York to marry Harold, and she had met Larry McGoldrick, a brilliant young professor at the University of Chicago. Harold and Larry were very different men, but they shared a wry sense of humor. All of us got along well, and we saw each other often.

About 1980 we all left Chicago. We did so with some regrets, because we loved the city. But, Larry had accepted a job with NASA in Washington; Harold, with a young engineering firm in San Francisco. Larry and Jane had also just become the parents of Daniel, who would keep them very busy in the coming years. In spite of living on opposite coasts, Jane and I managed to see each other every so often, and we kept in touch by mail. Jane became an editor at National Geographic’s World magazine, I went back to grad school and set up an editorial service.

When Jane was about fifty, she made the major decision to return to grad school in order to become a Jungian psychologist. That would have been a tremendous effort even for a younger woman, and must have been extremely difficult for her. With her typical determination, she spent several years achieving her dream. As Dr. McGoldrick, she became a psychologist for the Air Force, then established a private practice in New Mexico. (Larry and Jane had fallen in love with the Southwest, and finally managed to relocate there just a few years ago.)

Jane and I exchanged some gifts over the years, and I treasure those concrete reminders of her. But, her greatest gift was a visit to us a few years before Harold died. Realizing she might never see him again, she flew to California to spend a couple of weeks with us. We had a wonderful time showing Jane the Monterey Peninsula, North Beach restaurants and the City Lights book store in San Francisco, and many other places. It gave Harold and me a much-needed respite from his surgeries and hospitalizations, as he managed to stay well during her entire visit.

In the spring of 2012 Jane called to tell me she had been diagnosed with a rare form of cancer, but intended to do everything possible to survive. Knowing her perseverance, I thought that she would succeed. For more than a year afterward she was subjected to chemotherapy, radiation, and alternative treatments, traveling from her home in New Mexico to southern California and New York. In spite of everything, the cancer metastasized, and this August she succumbed to it.

I think Jane believed, as I do, that our death on this earth is not the end; that in some way we rejoin the Spirit. That belief should comfort me, and in time it will. Now, though, I want to rage as Macbeth did, “She should have died hereafter; there would have been a time for such a word. . . ” September 3 would have been her sixty-fifth birthday. Jane should have lived for many more years, giving of her love and intelligence to all of us who remain.

 

 

 

ENCOUNTERS ON THE ROAD

We are settled for the night at a Walmart in New York state, having started out too late to find a good campground. Not far outside our dinette window, a young man has set up a mobile detailing business, complete with pressure washer and hoses. We’re incredulous—in California, storm sewer openings are labeled with a sign warning that the drain leads to a waterway, and water used for washing cars is supposed to be recycled.  The young man tells us that in New York, what he is doing is perfectly legal.

He had returned home after a couple of years away for reasons he left unspecified. He traded a dozen bottles of beer for a 350-gallon water tank, got some free or low-cost hardware, and invested some money in the pressure washer only. Then he went into business in some public spaces, including some Walmart parking lots, apparently without any objections from Walmart, charging customers a low price for a quick detailing job. We had to admire his entrepreneurial spirit.

That reminded us of some other people we have met in our travels. When we stopped at Morro Rock in Kings Canyon, another young man was sleeping in his car, obviously avoiding campground fees. As any food might be seen as an invitation by the local bears, he stored his containers of food in the toilet building.

One hot summer when we were visiting Yellowstone, we went to the parking lot at  Old Faithful extremely early, fearful that we wouldn’t find a shady parking spot later on. A tiny car was parked near us. As we were eating breakfast, the car doors opened. A young couple (still wearing pajamas) and their huge dog emerged, apparently having spent the night there.

Sometimes the people we meet are a pure joy. When we were blundering our way through Ontario, we stopped at a Mennonite coffee shop and warily asked the way to our destination. The waitresses not only gave us accurate and clear directions, but drew a map that was easy to follow. Unfortunately, even knowing which way is north seems beyond most people, so we were extremely grateful to these women.

Others come up with just the right information by coincidence. When Thane was on his way east this year in the hope of helping with Acadia National Park’s Night Sky festival, he stopped at Dinosaur Monument in Utah. He asked an NPS ranger to change a $20 bill so he could pay for a campground site. She couldn’t do that, but casually mentioned a star party to be held that night at Dinosaur. He was able to participate in an excellent program.

Some encounters are downright scary. At the Bridge campground in northern California, we saw what looked like a monster rising out of the creek. It turned out to be a large man wearing black wetsuit headgear; he was a good guy removing trash from the water.

One night at the Columbia River gorge, we drove to an overlook for a spectacular view of the gorge. No “no overnight parking” signs were in evidence, and we were tired, so we stopped for the night. A young man driving a pickup that held an apartment’s worth of furniture was parked near by, and it turned out that he was staying overnight, too. He told us he was moving to Oregon from Texas, but he appeared to be living at the overlook full time, and sleeping on the cab seat.

We have met a few European travelers, who all seem fascinated by North America. Some have gone to extraordinary lengths to travel by RV here, shipping their own rigs over the Atlantic at enormous expense. We hope they can stay in North America long enough to justify the cost.

Winnebago View and Navion RVs are rare enough to inspire some loyalty and fraternal feeling among owners. When we went to the Quartzsite rally last January, we met a man who had organized a special View/Navion gathering. For a few days, we were surrounded by our tribe, a great bunch of people. The same man who was responsible for this gathering has been a savior to many owners who frantically post their problems on a Yahoo! Site while en route—he answers with advice that has probably saved thousands of dollars and some marriages. 

A woman pounded on our door in the middle of the night in Winnipeg, saying her rig was out of gas and she wanted money to buy some. We turned her down.

And so it goes—wherever we travel, sightseeing sometimes is overshadowed by the people we meet or avoid meeting. It’s another fascinating facet of the RV life.

 

 

THE TIME TRAVELER'S TRAIN

 

 

Even today, when there are no steam whistles to bring about that “Blues in the Night” feeling, trains are a romantic way to travel. We shun airplanes when possible, and take long vacations in our RV, but manage an occasional train ride.

Recently I took Amtrak’s Blue Water line from Chicago to Kalamazoo, both for an enjoyable and inexpensive ride and for reliving much of my life. The journey began at Chicago’s famous Union Station,

where I changed trains a few times in 1959 as I returned from grad school at the University of Wisconsin to my home in southwest Michigan. I recall gazing out the train window at snowy landscapes—Wisconsin always seemed wintry then—dotted with only a few leafless trees.

Last week the train moved slowly through Chicago‘s south side toward Indiana. For about 20 years I lived in various parts of Chicago and its suburbs, first as a young bride, then as a divorcée, and finally as a happily remarried woman. During those years I found  my vocation as a science editor, and edited many textbooks for Rand McNally. Chicago was and is a magnificent city. Only the unrelenting ice and snow drove us to move to San Francisco in 1980.

We rolled through Indiana quickly, with Lake Michigan near but unseen to the north. As soon as we crossed the border into Michigan, I felt at home. Cottonwoods and maples were still August-green, but would begin to turn gold and scarlet in a few weeks. My grandparents had a farm near Bridgman, and these same railroad tracks ran through it.  As a child in the forties I often visited Grandma and Grandpa, where I balanced precariously on the rails and put crossed pins on them to be fused into miniature scissors by passing trains. At night I could hear the trains passing though. That was still the era of steam trains with the lonely sounding whistles that promised adventure far away in miles and years.

The train of today continued on through the many small towns of Berrien and Van Buren counties. I was born in Watervliet, a little paper-mill town that has nearly vanished (the mill closed years ago, and the Pere Marquette trains no longer go there). Though I still treasure my friends from childhood and high school, I was glad to leave the oppressive life there. In the fifties my English teacher, Roy Davis, made the mistake of introducing me to Sinclair Lewis’s Main Street, which helped me recognize the worst side of midwestern rural life. Roy is fonder of small-town life than I am, and still lives in the next town, Hartford, in a lovely century-old home. (On this nostalgic trip I had the chance to visit him and his wife, Marion.)

The train was delayed,  as most trains tend to be, but finally reached Kalamazoo. As it entered town I looked up past the huge campus of Western Michigan University and saw the dome of Stetson Chapel at Kalamazoo College. Four of the happiest years of my life were spent at “K” College, where I was exposed to the wide world of literature, the sciences, music, and art. Three of my college roommates loved the city so much that they have gone on living there for more than 50 years, and a cousin who taught at Western has remained there also. Going back to see them and walk around the campus is a treat that I indulge in every few years. Old roommate Diane Worden met me at the station, and we drove off to a Middle Eastern dinner. (Kalamazoo is more cosmopolitan than it was in the fifties, when pizza seemed esoteric.)

I have spent longer in airplanes waiting for takeoff than the train ride lasted, but in that short trip I had relived much of my life. After a happy week I rejoined my partner, who had driven the RV from California, and we began driving toward Maine. Though this would be a wonderful vacation, I was grateful to have spent some time alone aboard that train to yesterday.

HEALTHY AGING IN AN RV

There is a stereotypical RVer, and too often the stereotype is accurate: an aging man or woman wearing Bermuda shorts topped with a beer belly, sprawling on a folding chaise longue, eating barbecued meat, drinking beer, watching TV outdoors with the aid of a noisy generator. These people are just pathetic, and many are actually ill as a result. Fortunately, the RV life—and those of us who live it—can be much better. My partner and I have found that it actually can help us stay healthy if we avoid some rather obvious mistakes.

Spending too much time driving is one mistake that interferes with health. Driving an RV can lead to a mad dash across hundreds of miles a day, with few breaks. While one family member is driving, a passenger is making sandwiches that are eaten during the drive. Instead of driving for a long time, we stop often and walk for a while. This is less stressful and provides a little needed exercise. In addition, we see much more of our surroundings on foot than from the RV.

Many of us elderly Rvers are on a lot of medicines (I take about 20 pills a day, including vitamins as well as prescription meds). These need to be easily accessible at all times, especially in case of an emergency. We keep all of ours in a bag behind the passenger seat. It’s easy to reach at any time, and if we ever need to escape quickly, we can grab the bag on our way out. Once a week, we dole out a seven-day supply of pills in one of those handy divided containers. (I keep my daily pills in my backpack or purse to help me remember to take them. It’s important to maintain that daily routine.)

Too often it is tempting to stop at a restaurant as a longer break from driving, but this is likely to end in taking in too many calories and eating the wrong kinds of foods, as well as spending a lot of money. Nearly always, we prepare meals in the RV and eat them at a roadside picnic table or at our own dinette.  Farmers’ markets are a wonderful source of healthful food that is also an enjoyable part of experiencing a local area.  Rather than carrying a heavy cookbook, I loaded my own book, Cooking without Sugar, onto my  laptop computer, where I can easily use the search function to locate recipes or ingredients. If I learn about an appealing recipe en route from another camper or from a newspaper, I add it to the collection.  Being addicted to coffee, I may get an occasional “restaurant fix” and get to know some locals by spending time in a coffee shop.

Cooking in an RV must be rather basic to save pantry space (unless you have one of those humongous RVs, in which case I have little to say to you), so I don’t bother with any recipe having more than five ingredients. We eat little meat even at home, which helps in keeping things simple.

Drinking a lot of alcohol seems to be a major activity for many Rvers, as it goes along with campground sociability. Though a couple of drinks a day can be part of a healthy lifestyle, you need to be careful not to overdo it. Alcohol can be fattening and has little nutritional value. Besides, it can make you relax so much that you eat too many snacks along with it! If you are trying to lose weight, or taking certain medications, it is better to skip the booze altogether. (I know.  . . I used to drink my share of wine, but have gradually given it up, and no longer miss it.) There’s always iced tea, cocoa, or some other substitute.

Getting enough sleep is essential, even when you are trying to rise early and do as much as possible in your travels. Be sure your RV bed is comfortable; you may need to add a mattress pad, for instance. The Travasak was a wonderful sheet-and-comforter combination that could be turned over for comfort summer and winter. It is no longer manufactured, but turns up for sale at Tuesday Morning and similar shops, as well as on eBay, occasionally. Especially in hot summer weather, you may want to get up early, then take a nap in your moveable bed after lunch.

Mental health can suffer in an RV; you may be cut off from the classes or other educational opportunites you have at home. Unless you can find something really worth watching, turn off  the TV in the evening. Have a few good paperbacks with you to read. (I confess that I read a lot of mysteries, but try to alternate them with something more serious.) My partner and I are fond of playing Scrabble on a small travel set, finding that the game helps us stay aware of spelling and word usage.  On Sunday mornings we try to find an NPR station wherever we are, so we can listen to Will Shortz’s Sunday Puzzle and try to solve it. (We have solved it many times and submitted our entries, but have never been called.) Luckily, we both love museums and libraries, so visiting them during our travels is another mental boost.

Loneliness can be especially hard on us older RVers. Our old friends are dying, and we may feel cut off from friends and family while traveling. Most of  us try to stay in touch with people by using e-mail and phone calls often. Also, we can chat with our neighbors in campgrounds.

Some of these suggestions may not appeal to you, but if you apply the general principles of eating healthfully, getting some mental and physical exercise, and resting, you can avoid being the kind of Rver seen in cartoons. You will return home healthier than when you left.

DEATH IN THE SUNSHINE STATE

In the seventies, my parents retired and moved to Florida. Wanting a peaceful, nonstressful environment, they picked the small town of Sanford. Sanford seemed rather dull to me, but I could understand their wish to be away from the faster-paced life in Orlando or Miami, and they seemed content with life there. So, when Sanford was suddenly in the headlines for all the wrong reasons, I was horrified to realize it was not so different from Chicago or Oakland. There is no escape from "urban" problems.

George Zimmerman was acquitted by a jury of six women—five Caucasians and one Hispanic—an outcome that didn’t surprise me. I had noticed plenty of prejudice against African Americans when I spent time in Florida, and would have been amazed if Zimmerman had been found guilty. Whether he actually was guilty of murder, or even of manslaughter, is another question, one that I cannot answer. Certainly the prosecutors failed to prove their charge against him.

Trayvon Martin

What is certain is that a black teenager, Trayvon Martin, was shot and killed because he walked through a white gated community and appeared to Zimmerman as if he might be up to something. Zimmerman, a self-styled neighborhood watch volunteer, followed Martin and confronted him. The details and sequence of events following that are unclear. Zimmerman claimed that Martin pounded his head into the sidewalk, and that he shot Martin to death in self-defense. Which of them was the attacker, and which was the victim?

Having been an officially sanctioned Neighborhood Watch block captain for several years myself, I feel strongly that Zimmerman should have called the police to report his suspicions, then stayed in his car instead of following the boy. Neighborhood Watch members are not supposed to be vigilantes, but to be extra eyes for the police force.

If only he had simply waited for the police. If only he had not followed Trayvon. If only he had not been armed! For that is the final link in this tragedy. Too many people like Zimmerman are carrying weapons and are too eager to use them. We need tough laws that restrict access to guns to those who must have them, and who will use them responsibly. Without such laws, more Trayvon Martins will die, and more Sandy Hook children will be murdered. More moviegoers like those in Aurora, Colorado, will be victims. During the twenty days of the Zimmerman trial, three teenagers and a five-year-old boy were shot to death in Chicago alone. There will always be murders and violence, but we can at least lower the number of shootings.

DISAPPOINTED WITH NPR

Years ago, while living in Chicago, I discovered the “Midnight Special” radio program. WFMT, which ordinarily broadcasts classical music and brief news items, every Saturday night substituted their  “weekly aberration of folk music and farce, show tunes and satire, odds and ends, madness and escape.” Hosts Ray Nordstrand and Norm Pellegrini had come up with that inimitable program in 1953. When NPR was formed in 1970, WFMT became an NPR station, and the Special continued. I listened to it nearly every Saturday, along with other NPR programs.

In all the years since I have listened to NPR, even during pledge breaks, and have been a member at whatever level I could afford. Sometimes today, though, I question my allegiance to it. Recently NPR cancelled “Talk of the Nation,” a long-running show moderated by Neal Conan. For years, Conan took calls from listeners around the country about various issues, handling them with tact and intelligence. The program has been replaced, for no apparent reason, with an inferior one.

It would be bad enough if this were NPR’s only grievous error. Unfortunately, this is only the latest one. Terry Gross, for example, is an excellent interviewer, and in the past I greatly enjoyed her conversations with interesting subjects ranging from academics to entertainers. More and more, though, her program has been invaded by fading rock musicians and hack writers pushing their latest books. As she is the co-producer of her “Fresh Air” program, I find this hard to understand. Surely she knows better.

On the morning of 9/11, I turned on my kitchen radio in California to learn from “Morning Edition” host Bob Edwards that planes had just hit the World Trade Center. As I struggled to deal emotionally with that tragedy, the only thing that kept me from breaking down completely was Edwards’ voice. Somehow he managed in spite of obviously being shaken himself to sound sane and reassuring. His listeners got a feeling of “this, too, shall pass.” I will never forget it. Surely millions of people were as fond of Bob Edwards as I was, and were just as disgusted when NPR let him go.

I could go on and on.  For instance, Capital Public Radio, my local NPR station, recently replaced some of their excellent classical music and jazz programs with hard rock—I guess that‘s what you would call it—that is simply unbearable.

What is NPR thinking? Are they firing middle-aged broadcasters, and changing the content of programs, in the hope of attracting a younger “demographic”? (I hate that word.) I wish that they would base their choices instead on whether their programs appealed to their listeners’ intelligence.

In spite of this criticism I still listen to NPR in preference to any other radio program, and to most television. Michael Krasny’s “Forum” on KQED in San Francisco is a fine source of information, with a brilliant host. I play Will Shortz’s Puzzle every Sunday morning, but am yet to be the winning player. “StarDate” and Ira Flatow’s “Science Friday” are usually good programs about the sciences. Back in Chicago, the “Midnight Special” is still running! Sadly, Nordstrand and Pellegrini are both dead now, but Rich Warren does a good job of continuing their work. So, NPR, you still know how to do it right. Just do it!