IRONY

My last post praised the merits of my Nook e-reader--the portability, large memory, and so on. I have been reading a fascinating novel, Red River, by Lalita Tademy, the current selection for my book club. As no hardcover copy of the book was available, I bought the ebook from Barnes & Noble. Two days ago, the Nook became comatose. All the books stored on it are lost to me. I am hoping to get it repaired and to finish the Tademy book before the next book club meeting, but suspect the Nook is done for. Phooey!

READING IN AN RV

A couple of years ago I bought a Nook e-reader from Barnes &Noble. This has opened up a new world of RV reading—partly good, partly bad—for me.

RV space is extremely limited, and that’s a problem for anyone who reads. Even a few paperbacks can take up space that is needed for something else. The Nook is ideal for RV travel. I can load many books on it—a few science books for reference or for bringing my knowledge up to date, a couple of current mysteries, some novels, and a couple of classics I’ve always meant to read.

 Though many ebooks are available for purchase from Barnes &Noble and other sources, that option can get expensive. Fortunately, I can also check out free ebooks and magazines from my local library. Though they must be returned, like any library books, the returns can be done online.

At times the lighted screen of the Nook helps enormously. Even the amount of brightness is adjustable. As a result, while my vision is poor, if we are boondocking and limited to only a low light level I can still read. That isn’t always true for books on paper.

Of course, if I should lose or damage the Nook, I may lose an entire  library. Supposedly Barnes & Noble can easily replace lost ebooks I have bought from them. That’s a bit scary, and I have not yet tested it.

I also have some doubts about just how much I learn or retain from ebooks. Studies of reading retention from ebooks and traditional books have had mixed results, though in the last few years ebooks have seemed more acceptable to students and teachers, as would be expected. (Ten years ago I thought “kindle” was only a verb.  Today nearly everyone knows what a Kindle is.) Nevertheless, some studies have shown greater retention from solid books that demand an interaction with paper, type fonts, and other characteristics. Much research is needed in this field.

My own experience bears this out. I have read many ebooks since retiring, both to fill out my “bucket list” and for casual enjoyment. Though the serious reading (including a lot of Tolstoy) has been pleasurable, and the built-in dictionary has helped with comprehension during reading, I find afterward that I haven’t retained a great deal from it. My impression is that reading the same books in a traditional paper format would have been more productive. I could have underlined portions of the text, written comments in the margins. When I look at books I read many years ago, just seeing my additions to them recalls a great deal. That may be possible with ebooks (it’s possible to highlight passages and add comments, but inconvenient). I haven’t made the effort, though. For me, the technology is too new. Younger readers may find it easy to handle, and won’t care about books on paper. (What a terrible thought! I hope I don’t  live long enough to see that happen.)

Casual reading is another matter. If I don’t remember all the details of a murder mystery, it doesn’t matter. In fact, I may be able to reread a book in a few years when I don’t recall whodunit! It’s an unexpected bonus of aging.

So, which mode of reading is better? As with so many things, it all depends. During travels in the RV, I am grateful for the Nook. During time at home I still tend to accumulate books printed on paper and add them to the library I’ve built since childhood. During many moves around the country over the years, and a major downsizing in 2005, I have ruthlessly cut down on that library, but it grows back as quickly as kudzu. And, many of those books are old friends, treasures that I have simply packed up and taken with me. Perhaps in time I will have a Nook library of favorites also, but it hasn’t happened yet.

 

---

THEODORE ROOSEVELT NATIONAL PARK

For us, it was one of those serendipitous finds. Having a serious problem with the RV in Calgary and unable to find a Canadian repair shop that could handle it, we ended up in Minot, North Dakota. In making our way back to the lower states from Minot, we discovered  the Theodore Roosevelt National Park. People tend to drive past this park as they go on to Mount Rushmore or Glacier, but that’s a mistake. Historically and geologically, it’s an interesting place. Oddly shaped buttes, layered by millennia of deposition and compression, rise rather suddenly out of the grassy plains of the Badlands. This is not the breathtaking scenery of Glacier or Yosemite, but the gentler beauty of the Old West. Jackrabbits, vast towns of prairie dogs, and other Plains animals dwell among the sagebrush and cottonwoods.

When young Teddy Roosevelt—already an accomplished writer and legislator—stepped off the train from the East in 1883, he was ill prepared for hunting bison and for the Badlands. Imagine how the local cowboys must have reacted to the nearsighted, scrawny dude whose sterling silver hunting knife had been crafted by Tiffany! With his characteristic enthusiasm, T.R. immediately responded to the West, bought land, and went into the cattle business. A partner managed the ranch when Roosevelt went back to the East.

Only five months later, tragedy struck. Roosevelt’s beloved wife and his mother died on the same day, leaving him with a newborn daughter (who would grow up to be the uncontrollable Alice Roosevelt). Wretched, he returned to the West for the solace that environment provided. In 1884 he bought a second ranch, the Elkhorn. That ranch home is long gone now, but a model of it has been constructed from descriptions.

A model of the Elkhorn ranch house at the visitor's center. This child had grown tired of sightseeing!

T.R. sold it in 1890, after failing spectacularly as a cattle rancher. In Hunting Trips of a Ranchman, one of his numerous books, T.R. vividly described the Elkhorn ranch and its surroundings: "My home ranch-house stands on the river brink. From the low, long veranda, shaded by leafy cotton-woods, one looks across sand bars and shallows to a strip of meadowland, behind which rises a line of sheer cliffs and grassy plateaus. This veranda is a pleasant place in the summer evenings when a cool breeze stirs along the river and blows in the faces of the tired men, who loll back in their rocking-chairs (what true American does not enjoy a rocking-chair?), book in hand--though they do not often read the books, but rock gently to and fro, gazing sleepily out at the weird-looking buttes opposite, until their sharp outlines grow indistinct and purple in the after-glow of the sunset."

In contrast to T.R.’s rough cabin (which is near the visitor's center) at his first ranch, there is a luxurious home near by, the Chateau de Morès. This was owned by T.R.’s neighbors, the Marquis and Marquise de Morès. Luckily for modern tourists, the Chateau has been preserved as a historical site. Its elegant furniture and plumbing, modern for its time, made it stand out in the rough frontier era.

De Morès was almost as fascinating a character as T.R. himself, though an unsavory one in many ways. He was a renowned duelist, a cattle rancher in the Old West, and a railroad pioneer in Vietnam. Unfortunately, he was also an extreme anti-Semite. Famous also as a Dakota Territory gunslinger, he was arrested (but never convicted) for murder several times.

The Marquis built a meat-packing plant and tried to ship refrigerated meat to Chicago via the railroad, in order to avoid the cost of sending cattle to the Chicago stockyards, but the beef trust in Chicago squelched his efforts. Like T.R., he eventually gave up on cattle ranching and left the West. In later years the Marquis became very involved in anti-Jewish politics and was ambushed and killed in Africa, apparently by the French government. No one was ever arrested for his murder.

Theodore Roosevelt National Park is only one of the nation’s hundreds of national parks. 2016 is the 100th anniversary of the National Park System; though this may lead to some unwelcome campground crowding and stress on the parks' environments, it also is certainly a cause for great celebration. Everyone should visit some national park this year, and stopping at one of the less familiar parks, such as this one, may make it possible when Yosemite and Yellowstone are crammed full of tents and RVs.

 

A TALE OF THREE CITIES

For the past several years I have happily lived on the forested west slope of the Sierra Nevada Mountains in northern California. At this time of my life being far away from “civilization” is just fine. For most of my adult life, though, I lived in large cities. From about 1960 to 1980 the city was Chicago (except for a year or so spent in New York), and from 1980 to 2005 it was the San Francisco Bay Area.

CHICAGO

While growing up in rural Michigan, I visited Chicago only a few times. It seemed like the best of all possible cities, with the lake shore, museums of all types, and magnificent buildings.

Buckingham Fountain, near Lake Michigan

Moving there as a bride in 1959, I found much more to explore, and appreciated the city even more. There were theaters, concerts, universities. I fell into a challenging and rewarding job as a biology editor for Rand McNally. When my first marriage ended, other single women and I took classes at Northwestern University, the Art Institute of Chicago, and the Field Museum of Natural History. We drank wine and ate delicious meals at little French and German restaurants.

Returning in 1971 after a year in New York and remarriage (to Harold Stone), I also met Chicago’s community of magicians, hung out at the Chicago School of Folk Music, and learned to love the Lyric Opera.

For me, the downside of Chicago is the weather:  hot and muggy in the summer, very cold and snowy in the winter. Usually only short periods in the spring and fall are appealing. Partly to escape the snow and ice that dragged on every winter, Harold and I jumped at the chance to move to San Francisco when he had a job offer there in 1980.

Meeting Sue at the Field Museum of Natural History

I still love Chicago, in spite of its rough politics, crime, and miserable weather.  When my partner (born in California) and I went there a few years ago, it was exciting to show him some of the places he had only heard about. We plan to return soon.

RV Facilities

Driving into the city center in an RV would be a mistake. Anyone intent on taking part in Chicago’s rich night life should simply find a reasonably priced hotel. (This is easy in winter for obvious reasons.) On a recent visit, I stayed at the Ohio House Motel. It was within walking distance of the Art Institute, the Magnificent Mile (Michigan Ave.), and the Loop.

Taking a commuter train into Chicago is easy.

The Indiana Dunes National Lakeshore, a national park, has a good campground where we stayed for a couple of days. The park itself is well worth a visit, but we used it also as a convenient base from which we could visit Chicago.  About a mile from the campground, the South Shore train station has a free parking lot with space for our 24’ RV. We left it there while taking the train into the city. After a few hours of seeing museums and walking through parks, we returned to the RV for the night.

Other Rvers have told us of staying in a parking area at the McCormick ConventionCenter, next to Lake Michigan on Chicago’s south side. We have no personal knowledge of this “campground,” but it sounded convenient and reasonably priced.

SAN FRANCISCO

On a business trip in the early 1960s I saw San Francisco for the first time, fell in love with the city immediately, and vowed to live there some day. The same thing happened independently to Harold, whom I met in 1968. Though we settled in Chicago after our 1971 marriage and were happy there, we both hoped to move to The City, as San Franciscans call it. When that became possible in 1980, it was a dream come true.

San Francisco is indeed beautiful. As it is nearly surrounded by water, nearly every hilltop commands a view of the Pacific Ocean or of San Francisco Bay. Some areas have charming Victorian homes, and there are appealing shops. Fog provides a romantic evening atmosphere during much of the year, and the daytime light is like that nowhere else. Wonderful restaurants and coffee shops of every variety tempt gourmets. No other U.S. city is so much like Paris.

Of course there are things to criticize (I found some residents not only happy to live there, but a bit snobbish about their luck; and the financial district has become too much like that in any large city), but for visitors, the enchanting old city is still a place everyone should experience.

RV Facilities

Avoid driving on those hills! Stay in some nearby town and take public transportation in for the day. If all else fails, find a way to drive in to the strip of motels near the entrance to the Golden Gate Bridge. That section is less hilly than others.

If we go there in the RV, we stay or find street parking in Alameda (an island on the east side of the bay), then take the San Francisco Bay ferry across the bay. Incidentally, that’s the best and cheapest way to see the Bay. Staying in an Alameda motel is also less expensive than staying in San Francisco.

There is an RV campground in Pacifica, fifteen  miles south of The City. It has mixed online reviews, but apparently is a convenient place to view the ocean before or after taking a BART train into San Francisco. The BART station is a few miles from the campground.

NEW YORK

Lured to the city in 1970 when I was offered  a job at Random House (which quickly fell apart during a publishing merger bloodbath), I spent more than a year sitting at my desk every day reading The New York Times. Every week end I visited one of the wonderful museums, especially the Museum of Modern Art and the American Museum of Natural History. Thanks to a man I was dating who had numerous mysterious connections resulting in free tickets, two or three times a week I saw Broadway and off-Broadway plays, listened to jazz, and enjoyed other popular culture. It was an exciting life that could happen nowhere else, but after a while I began longing to stay home with a good book. After a year or so I also realized I wanted to return to Chicago and marry Harold. So I did.

For many people, New York is the only possible place to live. I get it, in a way, and for a reason that may be startling. It’s not just the shopping, the museums, the nightlife, and other patent advantages. Most important, the people are fascinating! New Yorkers have a vitality and spirit (and a surprising kindliness) that I have seen nowhere else. The cultural advantages of the city are also great, but they are somewhat shared by other cities.

In spite of my liking for New Yorkers, I found the physical city very oppressive. Perhaps more than today, it was crowded and dirty. The tall buildings blocked almost the entire smoky sky. Because I lived only a few blocks from the East  River, I sometimes walked along the river to see some sky and water; it wasn’t San Francisco Bay or Lake Michigan, but it helped. Central Park, also, gave me some connection with the natural world.

RV Facilities

No one in their right mind would drive an RV into Manhattan (I never tried to drive even a car there), but there are RV campgrounds on Staten Island. From there, campers can take the famous Staten Island Ferry into the city.

 

All in all, staying out of large cities altogether is the least stressful mode of RV travel. However, if you are traveling from one national park to another, or on some other long trip, there may be must-see cities along the way. As these three examples show, with a little ingenuity you can combine RV travel with visiting cities. Googling for campgrounds, staying with friends in the suburbs, and using other strategies can make it possible.

THE LONELIEST HIGHWAY IN AMERICA

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

All photos (c) 2015 by Thane Puissegur

SUICIDES IN PALO ALTO

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

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

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

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

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

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

BEING A CAREGIVER

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

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

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

MOTORHOMES IN THE FUTURE

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

 

 

 

 

 

A VEGETARIAN THANKSGIVING

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was the best Thanksgiving a vegetarian could want.

THE FOGGY, FOGGY COAST

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

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

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

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

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