THE NEANDERTHALS AMONG US

You never know what you may see from an RV window. The South seems especially rich in remarkable sights: One day as we drove along, minding our own business, we saw a huge billboard advertising a dinosaur museum, and we slowed down to check it out.

As it turned out, the museum was too expensive for us—$24 per person, even for us senior citizens. Good grief! For that price, we could have visited a world-class paleontology museum such as the Field Museum of Natural History in Chicago, or the American Museum of Natural History in New York. More important than the egregious admission price, the museum was anti-science; it was a thinly disguised exhibit about special creation, or the creation of living things as presented in Genesis. We saw no benefit in supporting it, and kept driving.

Some scientists believe God created life; others do not. What nearly all of them agree on is that living things have evolved (changed gradually) since they first appeared on Earth, branching in various directions to form the millions of species that have lived and died over the eons. Evidence from paleontology, anatomy, genetics, embryology, physiology, and  other areas of biology all show similarities among organisms that make sense only if they evolved gradually .

The comic strip Alley Oop is delightfully entertaining. (Oop is a time-traveling Neanderthal who rides through a Carboniferous forest on a dinosaur, battles other cavemen, and so on.) The strip is a pleasant fancy, but of course it is nonsensical. The dinosaurs were wiped out 65,000,000 years ago, millions of years before the Neanderthals appeared. Creationists, though, have tried to insist that all living things were created within 6,000 years, and so humans and dinosaurs actually co-existed. In a hilarious exhibit at one creationist museum, fossils appear to show a dinosaur eating a person.

The creationists have been ridiculed for years, and are thin-skinned enough to have gone through a sort of evolution themselves. Now they call their ideas “intelligent design,” a supposedly scientific theory that is less obviously religious. However, they dodge the question of how there can be a design unless there is a designer. For that matter, what would unintelligent design be?

Back in 1958, just before the centenary of The Origin of Species by Natural Selection, a famous scientist wrote that “a hundred years without Darwinism are enough.” He was appalled that there was still any opposition to a theory that was accepted by the scientific community. And that was more than 50 years ago! There have been amendments to Darwin’s theory of evolution—punctuated equilibrium and the molecular structure of DNA, for instance—but the basic idea of evolution by natural selection has stood the tests of time and of challenges from naysayers.

In recent years researchers have shown that Neanderthals interbred with some groups of modern humans, which means that most of us have some Neanderthal genes. In another sense, though, Neanderthals are all around us—denying evolution, denying climate change, denying science. Will this denial continue for another hundred years? Or will we say this is already more than enough?

WHICH WAY? HOW FAR? WHERE ARE WE?

Having a ghostly voice provide directions as we are driving might simplify our RV life, but what sort of challenge is that? We pride ourselves on making serendipitous discoveries of places that don’t appear on maps. Much better to blunder along with the questionable help of my old Rand McNally road atlas, and with the even less reliable aid of locals.

Conversation with the locals can be amazing, revealing much about current education. When we can get the attention of a young woman who is absorbed in texting about last night’s date, we may ask, “Can you tell us how to get to Wal-Mart?”

“Yeah, sure. Actually, it’s down that street.”

“Which way, east or west?”

[Blank stare.] “That way. Like, past the big mall a ways.”

“How many miles?”

“Uh, I’m not sure. Not too far, actually. You can’t miss it.”

Much later, we pull into a gas station where we can again ask for directions. A slack-jawed young man reluctantly approaches.

“Can you tell us where Wal-Mart is?”

“Well, it’s, y’know, over on the other side of the highway.”

“How far over?”

“Not too far. Like, y’know, half an hour, maybe.”

“Do we go north or south on this street?”

[Glazed expression.] “Just go that way. Y’ go over a coupla bridges.”

Despairing of ever finding Wal-Mart, we stop at a fancy coffee shop filled with people glued to their laptops. The barista—no doubt an MBA looking for permanent employment—listens sympathetically and whips out her expensive tablet. She searches desperately, then brightens. “Here we are. It says the closest one is over in Illinois. About 200 miles.” 

We are in Wisconsin. Three cheers for technology! This is so much better than relying on the locals.

LIVING IN OLD HANGTOWN

A stuffed dummy of a hanged man, noose around his neck, dangles from an upstairs window. A nearby historical plaque notes that this is the site of the Hanging Tree, where nineteenth century mining-claim jumpers and desperadoes were publicly hanged, gratifying the righteous church-going citizens who watched. This grisly spectacle is near the center of downtown.

Originally Placerville, California, (my recently adopted home) was known as Blood and Guts. When gold was discovered by James Marshall a few miles away in 1848, the Gold Rush ensued, and hordes of both honest miners and ne’er-do-wells soon gathered in the hope of getting rich. As water had to be brought in to wash any gold out of the gravel, the town was renamed (a bit more genteelly) Dry Diggins. It was a wild and woolly place. Frontier justice that included the Hanging Tree followed, with Dry Diggins becoming known as Hangtown. The Gold Rush was short-lived, and in a few years Hangtown became much calmer. Those who wanted a better image changed the name to Placerville in 1854. Fewer saloons and brothels, and more churches, were built.

Today, of course, we are more civilized. The stone house that was once a Chinese brothel has been converted to a lawyer’s office. The saloons are generally peaceful places used for socially drinking into a stupor; only occasionally does a bar fight end in mayhem or murder. The “Old Hangtown”  label on police cars and various signs is supposedly a playful nod to our past.

Totin’ a gun is still widespread here, though.  The El Dorado County sheriff, proud to be a good ol’ boy, has proudly proclaimed that he will refuse to enforce any national legislation leading to gun control. He knows which side his bread is buttered on; in a very Democratic state, this county is extremely Republican. Tom McClintock, our representative in Congress, is one of the most conservative members in the House, and always wins elections handily. The local NRA is obviously popular, too—a recent fund-raiser was sold out immediately. When the scarce liberals in the area write letters urging assault-weapons control to the local newspaper, they are promptly derided for being opposed to the sacred Second Amendment. Indeed, one hapless gun-control advocate soon found that someone had gained access to her credit card and charged a purchase at a local gun dealer. What a fun-lovin’ bunch!

The level of civilization here extends to the intellectual. Because it is the county seat, Placerville has a large library that is used by thousands of patrons (many of whom read no books, but happily use the free computers to play endless games and admire themselves on Facebook). Some legerdemain in the past excused the city’s homeowners from paying any taxes to support the library, however. When a library bond issue came up last year—which would have led to an annual assessment of only $18 per parcel, or the price of a few hamburgers—it was promptly voted down. “No new taxes,” the cry rang out, and the faithful responded.

I’m an unreconstructed Bay Area liberal, and find much of this reprehensible. Why do I stay? Hangtown has many attractions for me. One is the long-suffering library; they have a reasonably good collection of books and videos, the librarians are helpful and pleasant, and I enjoy the book club. If I can avert my eyes from the hanged man, I enjoy strolling along Main Street. I can shop in the Placerville Hardware, the oldest continually operating hardware west of the Mississippi, or at the Placerville News Company.  (Everyone calls it George’s, referring to a long-time owner who died years ago. The fifth generation of his family is now working at the store.) Across the street, the Bookery has a large collection of new and used books. In hot weather the best place to eat in town is the Cozmik Café, where some tables are in an old gold mine once used for storing soda water, butter, and so on. Several thrift shops provide support for the local hospice, and offer inexpensive items for sale. The clothing shops and  pharmacy are locally owned. A flourishing group of artists sell their wares in a cooperative gallery, and there are three historical museums featuring Gold Rush times.

The natural environment is beautiful, in the rock-strewn Sierra Nevada foothills. Apple Hill, a few miles to the east, has acres of apple and pear orchards that are a delight to visit. A drive of less than two hours leads to Lake Tahoe, one of the most spectacular lakes in the country. Though urban sprawl is creeping up from Sacramento, at this point Placerville still has much of the small-town ambiance of Gold Rush times, with only scattered monster homes. My own small home is in a wooded cul-de-sac that belies its proximity to downtown. I like my neighbors! So, I will probably be here for a long time, when I am not on the road in the RV or living off the grid with my partner.

RV REPAIRS

It is an unfortunate part of RV life—nearly every long trip is interrupted by some mechanical problem that must be repaired. RVs are not like Model T’s, easily fixed by their owners. We live in California, and seem to have a problem having repairs made near home, which adds to the difficulty.

With a little bit of luck, the repair can be accomplished before the warranty expires. Soon after buying our Winnebago View, we started having trouble with the entertainment system. In the middle of an interesting TV program or DVD, we would see “no signal” on the screen. If the picture returned, it was usually too late. We took it many places for repair under the warranty, but no one else had the same problem, and they obviously thought we were hallucinating. Finally we had had enough, and stopped at the Winnebago factory on our way through Iowa. Forest City turned out to be a nice midwestern town where we hung out for a few days, took the factory tour, and looked through the museum. Though the problem was never diagnosed, our entire entertainment system was replaced.

On another trip, we were in Canada when the drive shaft needed repair. This was bad. The chassis is a Dodge Sprinter, which can be repaired in only a few places. We would have to return to the U.S. and take the View to a Dodge dealer in Minot, North Dakota. We had never heard of Minot at that time, but that would soon change. (Someone in the Air Force later told us that when Air Force pilots misbehave, they are reassigned to the Minot base.) We went to Minot, where it turned out that the drive shaft has three sections, only two of which could be ordered. That took several days, and though the rig could be safely driven, we still needed to replace the third section. As we needed to go on, we left without getting it. To have it replaced under the warranty, we had to return to Minot the following year. Both times we stayed at a Corps of Engineers campground near Garrison Dam, a delightful and inexpensive place. When we had to be at the Dodge dealer’s, we spent time at the nearby excellent public library. The Dodge employees were all professional and helpful, and after two years they began to feel like old friends.

One of our best repair adventures was in Avon, New York. The frightening “check engine” light had come on, and we didn’t dare proceed without having it checked. The Dodge dealer found a very minor problem and corrected it quickly, but the day was getting late, and we had no idea where to spend the night. Another customer who heard us asking about campgrounds suggested that we try the Letchworth State Park a few miles away. He said it was a pleasant campground. What an understatement! Letchworth turned out to be magnificent. Often called the “Grand Canyon of the East,” it has lovely waterfalls, a historic wooden railroad bridge that is still used, and other attractions. If we had not stopped in Avon for repairs, we would never have known about Letchworth.

So, the bottom line is serendipitous. Repair work can be expensive, annoying, and time-consuming, casting a dark cloud over a trip, but we have always found a silver lining.

 

THIS RV BRAKES FOR LIBRARIES

A library stop in Elko, Nevada

Most people think of RVing as taking to the open road, sightseeing, perhaps hiking and fishing. The outdoor life is vital for us, too, but we enrich our travels by spending some time in libraries along the way.

Our local branch of the county library is always a good place to begin. The Pollock Pines library is a cozy one-room operation, nestled beneath pine trees and dogwoods. It has a basic set of travel books that help with general planning; for more specific needs, we can Google on the library’s computers or on our own laptop. Just before leaving home, we may check out a few books to take along. Being a mystery addict, I am likely to take some paperback whodunits or DVDs, which are perfect for entertainment during enforced layovers in rain-drenched campgrounds.

Libraries themselves can be mysterious. In Tonopah, Nevada, we saw a tiny library on a side street. The intriguing sign on the front lawn read A.D. 2500. What was that about? Because Tonopah is on the Extraterrestrial Highway, we speculated that it might mean After Descent or (more scarily) After Dominion.

Lockport, New York,  has a beautiful library where I did some online research for a book while Thane admired the architecture. We hadn’t realized Lockport was on the historic Erie Canal, but the librarians soon set us straight. Following their directions, he saw the canal and locks, and took many photos.

In general, the libraries in large cities or in wealthy suburbs offer the most in books, architecture, and other attractions. Some newer libraries even have coffee shops where patrons can have coffee and a snack while reading books and magazines. The new Alameda, California,  library (built for $25 million with state funds and a local bond issue before the current recession) is spacious and beautiful.

The old library that it replaced was beautiful in another way, having stained glass windows, marble floors, wooden paneling, and lovely ironwork. It was a Carnegie library, one of the hundreds of United States libraries provided around the turn of the twentieth century with financial help from philanthropist Andrew Carnegie. Many of these libraries have a characteristic Greek Revival architectural style, with a stairway leading up to the entrance and pillars on each side of it, that is easily recognizable. We have seen Carnegie libraries all over the country. It is always a pleasure to visit one of them and perhaps curl up in front of a fireplace with a good book for a while. Unfortunately, they are gradually disappearing.

Librarians are usually experts on their local areas. When we drove into Las Vegas and had trouble in finding our way to the main strip of casinos, we stopped at a library for help. The idea that anyone could have trouble finding the flashiest square miles in America must have considerably amused the librarians, but they printed out a map of the city and marked it clearly so we could find our way.

Wi-fi is available in libraries nearly everywhere now. If I am writing or editing something, access to the Web is essential; even for e-mail, we need wi-fi every few days.  Occasionally we must pay a small charge for access, but it costs less (and is less fattening) than buying coffee and pastry in an Internet café.

While in a library, we can catch up on magazines and newspapers without spending any money or accumulating paper that must be recycled or thrown away. (We are frugal environmentalists.) Because local newspapers can be read in libraries, we can get an understanding of local issues that would be unlikely otherwise.

Thane devours magazines about anything having wheels—planes, RVs, or motorcycles—or about astronomy or photography. At the library in Pocatello, Idaho, he was delighted to find the latest issues of his favorite magazines on those topics. The library in Bismarck, North Dakota, was another treasure trove of magazines. When I had to fly home because of a family emergency, Thane spent a blissful day in the Bismarck library. I’m not sure he even noticed I was away. North Dakota seems to have excellent libraries, possibly because people need help in getting through the long winters. When we found ourselves in Minot waiting several days for RV repairs, we spent many happy hours in the city library.

In Oregon we bought a large box of cherries at a roadside stand, then realized they would spoil before we could eat all of them. A librarian at the Bend library saved the day by helping me find a recipe for cherry pie.

In general we have been lucky in finding libraries open whenever we happen to stop, but were disappointed in Winnipeg when we found a “closed” sign on the library door, with no explanation. A passerby shrugged and commented “It’s summer,” as if that accounted for it. 

Sometimes libraries in rural areas can be surprising. When we drove into Frazier Park, California, the day was late, and we needed to find a campground for the night.  As we searched, we noticed a library sign and decided to ask there for directions. This library is a gem—a recently built Arts & Crafts creation, complete with stained glass windows, sculptures, music, computers, community meeting rooms, and so on. The helpful librarian pointed us up the mountain to the lovely Chuchupate Forest Service campground, which we would never have found on our own.

So, some day you may see our Winnebago View in a library parking lot. We will be indoors happily catching up on e-mail, work, and reading. Or asking for directions.

"SUPERBUG" BACTERIA

The epidemic raged through the hospital nursery, endangering or infecting newborn babies. It was 1960, when penicillin was still effective against most pathogenic bacteria, but a new strain of Staphylococcus aureus had emerged—a strain that was resistant to penicillin.

I was a research assistant at a large teaching hospital in the Chicago area, and found myself assigned to finding the source of the infection. Was there a Typhoid Mary on the staff? Some cleaning woman or nurse's aide, perhaps? There was only one way to find out. For several weeks I moved from one room on the nursery floor to another, taking nasal swabs from every person who entered the room, then culturing the bacteria from them in the laboratory. It made me less than popular with the nursing staff, but the hospital administrators had given strict orders about the need for cooperating with my study. My results did indeed show the source of the infection—the pediatricians who moved from one baby to another without thoroughly washing their hands.

At that time hospital-acquired infections were much rarer than they are today. The “magic bullet” penicillin was given routinely to control infections as soon as they appeared. But the appearance of penicillin-resistant bacteria was a red flag for biologists, if not for much of the medical profession. Pharmaceutical companies responded by modifying the structure of penicillin to create methicillin, and for a time methicillin controlled all the bacteria that were resistant to penicillin. Eventually, some strains of bacteria emerged that were resistant to methicillin; now we call them methicillin-resistant Staphylococcus aureus, or MRSA. Some bacteria failed to be controlled by other antibiotics, also. Today many infections still respond to various antibiotics, but occasionally they do not.

How did this come about? As Charles Darwin realized in the nineteenth century, evolution occurs when something in the environment kills part of a species before it can reproduce. (This is what is meant by natural selection.) In a population of Staphylococcus (staph), some of the bacteria contain mutations that make them vulnerable to a given antibiotic, but other bacteria may be resistant to it. If an infection is treated with the antibiotic, only the resistant bacteria survive and reproduce. Bacteria multiply rapidly; soon, many resistant bacteria are in the environment.

Though antibiotics can be lifesaving when necessary, their misuse has led to selection for resistant bacterial strains. Most physicians are aware of the problem. However, even now many people continue to insist on being given antibiotics at the first sign of an infection, or even as a preventive measure.

In 2011 an infection spread through a National Institutes of Health (NIH) hospital near Washington, D.C. Caused by a drug-resistant strain of Klebsiella pneumoniae, it infected 18 patients and killed six of them. Carbapenem-resistant Enterobacteriaceae (CRE) is another danger: it is a particularly nasty class of bacteria that causes serious intestinal illness and is fatal in about 50% of cases. It is resistant to the powerful class of antibiotics called carbapenems. So far CRE has been found mainly in hospitals, but it has spread to most states now, and it seems inevitable that it will spread to the general community.

How can we aging people avoid getting these infections, which are especially dangerous to the elderly? One strategy is a no-brainer—stay out of hospitals! Many procedures can be done in outpatient settings today, which costs less and is less likely to lead to infections. If we do have to be in a hospital, we should forget politeness and insist that anyone who touches or even breathes on us wash their hands or use alcohol-based sanitizers. Beyond that, there is little we can do now except to stay as healthy as possible. Our bodies contain many “good” bacteria that help protect us against dangerous pathogens; if we are generally in good health and have not destroyed those helpful bacteria, we have a good chance of staying free of “superbug” infections.

MAKING YOGURT

Last week I was browsing in the local thrift shop, and saw a Salton yogurt maker. It had been quite a while since I’d seen one—in fact, since I donated my old one to another thrift shop—and it brought back many memories. Back in the day, yogurt-making was very popular, along with tie-dyed clothing, drugs, and rock ‘n’ roll. I found directions for making yogurt in The New York Times and used the recipe for years, then included a modified version in my own book Cooking without Sugar.

In recent years I have continued to eat yogurt, but because of general sloth have bought ready-made yogurt at Safeway. Their yogurt is dependably good, and is less expensive than it used to be. When I saw the yogurt maker, though, I couldn’t resist making it myself again. I invested $3 and took the machine home.

It worked perfectly, and the next day I had five cups of yogurt. The quality was similar to Safeway’s. I could have bought a Safeway quart carton for only about 50 cents more, so why should I bother making it myself? The main reason is that I no longer will accumulate those nonrecyclable yogurt cartons! Also, as a onetime bacteriologist I like the idea of working with living organisms (the bacteria that digest lactose and turn liquid milk into semisolid yogurt).  Finally, I will have a reliable supply of sugar-free, preservative-free yogurt that can be mixed with fresh fruit. Too often the yogurt in stores is made only with fruit syrups that I find almost nauseating, and that add many calories.

Because my RV is rather small, and we often have no electricity available, I may not take the yogurt maker when we travel. It will depend on what kind of trip we are planning and how long we will be gone. From now on, though, I will be making my own yogurt again whenever possible.

Here’s my recipe, if you’d like to try it:

Pour 1 qt whole or 2% milk into a metal (not enamel) saucepan. Add:

1/2 C instant nonfat dry milk

Bring to a boil and then remove from the stove. Cool until the milk is lukewarm (about 1 h). Whisk about 1/4 C into:

1/4 C plain Dannon yogurt (whatever brand you use, it must be a live culture)

Add the yogurt to the milk and stir.

Perhaps you have a yogurt maker; if so, pour the mixture into the cups, add the covers, and let it ferment overnight. Otherwise, leave the pan, uncovered, in a gas oven (having a pilot light) overnight. Or, put some water in an electric frying pan, set it at 110˚, and place the pan in the warm water for 3–4 h. (Back in the sixties I knew a flower child who carried out the fermentation by leaving the pan on her radio (with its warm tubes) overnight.)

When the yogurt has solidified, you can add fresh fruit and Splenda to create a dessert. It can also be used plain as an ingredient in other recipes. Be sure to save some for starting the next batch.

Stress and Strain

For many years I rose at five or six o’clock and began a long day of study, work, or caregiving. I was stressed out for long periods. My marriages and friendships suffered, I worked less effectively than I should have, and my health was affected. Both physical and emotional stress can set up a chain reaction of harmful physiological changes.

Some stress was unavoidable--burglaries and other crimes, my leaving Random House after a publishing merger ended in a bloodbath, a divorce, a hysterectomy, deaths, treachery, and so on. In other cases, though, I brought unnecessary stress on myself. Looking back now, relatively contented and relaxed, I can see some of the mistakes I made.

If I could be a time traveler and go back to advise my younger self, I would tell her:

Spend a few minutes every day writing a to-do list and assigning priorities. Not only does this make your day more productive, but just looking at the list will help you relax when you see how few things are really essential.

Get enough sleep. You need eight hours a night to feel well and to think clearly.
Exercise every day. Even a 20-minute walk will relieve stress. Tai chi or yoga can be combined with meditation.
Know when to quit. You should have dropped that medical students’ neuroanatomy class, for example. You have never used more than a superficial knowledge of the nervous system! For that matter, perhaps you should stop grad school after earning a Master’s degree. Your PhD dissertation hearing will be one of the most stressful experiences of your life.
Limit alcohol and caffeine. You drink too much coffee to stay alert, then drink alcohol to calm down after a stressful day.
Get help. Many sources of help with caregiving are available, but you are too stubborn to take advantage of them. Ask for advice about difficult computer programs, or take classes that will help. Don’t try to do everything alone.
Take frequent breaks from using the computer. Your eyes and brain need to rest.
Some of your relationships are stressful. Get some counseling about them from a good therapist. Then, if the relationships can’t be improved, end them. You will also discover much about yourself during therapy. This may reduce stress, also.
Make friends with lots of women. They will be helpful for the rest of your life. Inevitably, some friends will move away or become involved in lives that don’t include you, but a few friends will still be close to you fifty or sixty years from now. Treasure them.
Keep your home environment as simple and clutter-free as possible. You are spending too much time and energy caring for your belongings, and you sometimes spend too much money for them.
Listen to the “different drummer” in your own brain. Trying to live according to others’ expectations is a continual cause of stress.
Cultivate your sense of humor. You take life too seriously, and should laugh more.
Live within your income. When you are elderly, you will be horrified at the amount of interest you paid over the years. Only the interest you spent on mortgages will then seem justified.

If anyone gave me this advice about stress when I was young, I didn’t listen. It’s too bad my personal time-traveler from the future never appeared. 

ONLINE DATING: OUR STORY

The GreenSingles.com ad was directed at “progressive singles” such as environmentalists, vegetarians, religious liberals, and others with similar views. It promised to bring people together for companionship, friendship, even marriage. Online dating had never appealed to me, but this ad in my church magazine, the UU World, sounded good. After a few years of being a widow, I was tired of spending all my time with women friends or alone. I had no desire to remarry, but wanted to have a male companion in my life—someone with whom I could go to movies, talk, and walk along the Bay shore. I had tried the usual suggestions (join a church, be active in the community, etc.), but had met no one remotely interesting. It was time to be more adventurous. Friends warned me about the awful men I might meet online. But they also told me not to be too particular at my age—just to look for someone who was single, solvent, and sober!

At first, using online dating seemed like a mistake. When a few weirdoes responded to my ad I was glad my real name and address were safely hidden. Some other connections petered out quickly when we found no common interests. Just as I decided to give up, I got a message from a retired teacher living on the western slope of the Sierra Nevada Mountains, 150 miles away from me. He was interested in the environment, and had been building his own solar-powered home (off the grid) for many years. We had a couple of phone conversations, then decided we should meet for lunch. (Neither of us would be committed to anything, and we would at least have eaten lunch.)

I took the train to Sacramento, a neutral and public meeting place. A man waiting on the platform introduced himself as Thane, and we eyed each other a little warily, both wondering what we were getting into. Then we strolled through the streets of Old Sacramento, had lunch, and talked. He was the sort of person I had expected from the Green Singles ad. Perhaps too much so: He was a vegetarian, I sometimes ate meat; he hated city life, I enjoyed it; he never drank alcohol, I greatly enjoyed my daily glass or two of wine. More promisingly, we were both strongly committed to preserving the natural environment. He was several years younger than I, making me glad I had shaved a couple of years from my age for my ad. He showed me photos of the house he had designed and built, a simple chalet situated to maximize exposure to the sun. When lunch ended and the waiter brought some change, we both sprang for the quarters, and realized we were both collecting the commemorative state quarters. It was a start.

In the next few weeks, we talked on the phone several times, then agreed to meet again, this time in Auburn, in the Gold Rush country. We had a pleasant picnic and walked, discovering our mutual love of museums.  More meetings followed.

Finally, we visited each other’s homes. They were a contrast: I had lived for 20 years in Alameda, a city on San Francisco Bay. My house was a large 1905 Craftsman on the border of the city’s Gold Coast. I was proud of it, though as an impoverished widow I knew I would have to sell it before long. Thane’s was the solar home he had described to me. The view from the porch was breathtaking—we could look for miles across a valley filled with pines and oaks. Though it was not far from a road, no other house was visible, as the property was surrounded by the El Dorado National Forest. I hadn’t realized the house was still unfinished inside, and that the solar-powered batteries were minimal. If we wanted to watch TV in the evening, we had to use all the electricity for that. (If the day had been cloudy, he had to run a gasoline generator to charge the batteries.) We both greatly enjoyed playing Scrabble, fortunately—we could usually see well enough for that. Without the wi-fi and cell towers I was used to, my computer and cell phone were useless. A propane lantern hanging on the wall was the main source of light for reading during cloudy times. The fridge was small and used propane.

I began to realize that Thane was very eccentric, even by environmentalist standards. He lit additional burners with a used kitchen match, drove to the nearby town as seldom as possible, refused to buy any but the simplest carpentry tools. If he needed three screws for a project, he bought three screws, not a package. And yet, he bought organic foods that were more expensive than anything I was used to. Was this going to be a disaster?

We went through about a year of traveling back and forth and getting to know each other’s foibles. (I have my own idiosyncrasies, too.) Meanwhile, I decided to sell my home and buy an RV. Thane helped me choose the Winnebago View we now use.  (When I finally decided to live with him, my friends pointed out that if it didn’t work out, I could just jump into the RV and leave!) We became closer and closer, and made some compromises.

I finally moved to Thane’s house and have helped him make many improvements. It is still not completely finished, but traveling in the RV has seemed more important, and the house is now very comfortable for when we are at home. I am amazed to realize that I seldom miss Alameda.

Marriage has not been an option for us, for a variety of reasons, but we have now lived together for more than six years. Like all couples, we have our ups and downs. Still, we are both happier than we had been for a long time, and we hope to grow truly old together. Online dating has been wonderful for us.

WHO ARE THE KARDASHIANS, ANYWAY?

Waiting in the checkout lane at a supermarket, I glance at the magazines with their photos of glamorous celebrities. Or worse, photos of celebrities the paparazzi have caught drunk or obese. Who are all these people, and why should anyone care about them?

Long ago, I cared. Back in the 1950s I knew all the movie stars who were in Photoplay and other magazines. The term au courant was not yet in my vocabulary, but the idea was already entrenched. Most teenagers knew that June Allyson had a dusty pink bedroom and was married to Dick Powell, had a crush on Stewart Granger after seeing King Solomon’s Mines, and looked enviously at Jeanne Crain’s pencil sketches. No detail about the stars was unimportant to us high school girls.

For an impressionable young girl living far from city lights, fascination with celebrities is understandable. But, that was long ago, and in college I was exposed to live theater, classical music, and philosophy. The world suddenly seemed much larger and better than it had looked in glossy magazines.

Old people are often urged to “think young,” to “keep up with the times,” and so on. Isn’t it better for us to provide a link to the past? We have a perspective that is impossible for the young. My mother, who was born in 1908, forecast the current recession years ago, because she saw the similarities to the Roaring Twenties and to the Depression. I remember World War II and the postwar years, and can contrast that time with the present.

From our own aging viewpoint, we may be happier and more fulfilled if we spend time with the important books and music of the past than if we try to understand current ones. I would rather read a novel by Austen or Dickens than by most modern writers, rather listen to Tchaikovsky or Gershwin than to Philip Glass. Some modem writers and composers are excellent, of course; I enjoy reading anything by Simon Winchester, and am captivated by Animusic. In the end, however, I go back to old favorites.

Most of all, though, I want to catch up with important things that have been postponed too long, especially regarding our natural environment. Just in the past few years, for instance, I have begun truly experiencing the national parks and realizing their importance. About 100 years ago the poet A.E. Housman wrote that “And since to look at things in bloom, Fifty springs are little room, About the woodlands I will go, To see the cherry hung with snow.” I have far fewer than 50 springs remaining, but will make the most of them.