When I flew from Boston to San Francisco I was the only one reading a newspaper in my row. At least I could wrestle it into fold-able parts without competing for elbow room, but I was disappointed because I had seen many people buying papers in the terminal. And it was an early morning flight, the traditional newspaper reading and coffee drinking hour.

I’m always on the look-out for other newspaper readers. Those who still get their news from print. Hard core types. Purists, we might call ourselves, those who consume news the way God and Gutenberg intended.

A lot of people are prematurely nostalgic for newspapers.  “I used to read newspapers all the time,” people of my generation will say, with the sentimental reverence you might attach to an old Chevy or a Mounds bar.

But then I’ll run into someone much younger who is, as we say, on the same page.   Writer Anne Zimmerman, in her 30s and of that generation that generally leans online, said she actually prefers print.    Zimmerman, author of a delicious new biography of M.F.K. Fisher’s early years, An Extravagant Hunger, compared reading on the web to reading a newspaper in print.

“When I’m reading on the web I skim. My attention jumps around and it’s more of a fact-finding mission than a real enjoyable learning experience.”

Actually, it turns out that print people may have an advantage.  New research by the University of Oregon concluded that people who read in print remember news stories better and in greater detail than those who gulp their news online.

My whole writing career has been in print so I have a personal and professional loyalty to words in black and white that you can hold in your hands. My best argument for reading an actual newspaper is the unintended information you get from a random sighting. You’re reading about the latest political bloodbath or checking to see if the Giants are out of their slump and your eyes slide over to a story you never knew you needed or wanted to know about. And there it is – a little gift.

I had a pile of papers waiting for me after vacation, including two dailies, the Sunday edition of a third paper and two weeklies which could not go into the recycle bin until I went through them. Otherwise I would have missed a new report on migraines, a review of a new BBC series and a story quoting poet Mary Oliver on the need for solitude. I surely would have missed the story about my local librarian opening a Brazilian wax business.

The name of the big pointy rock in Mendocino County that sits along the Russian River and looks at highway 101 is having a name change. She will no longer be Squaw Rock, which she’s been known as for 50 years, but Frog Woman Rock or in Pomo dialect, Maatha kawao qhabe.

The reason? Some consider the word squaw a derogatory term for Native American women. And also because the Pomo Indians who settled in this part of Northern California and know the true mythology behind the landmark say Frog Woman is her rightful name.

I love this story. It took me back to a time when we got into discussions over the appropriateness and fairness of words. When we attempted to do the right thing by carefully thinking before we spoke. Of course there’s been some grousing over the name change with people saying it’s a dumb thing to worry about in these awful times. And while one might wish the state of California would use its genius to concentrate on creating jobs and saving schools, I was happy to see that some people are still sensitive to how we use our words. Especially now when the national conversation has pretty much devolved into grunts, accusations, lies and insensitive, hateful name-calling.

The idea behind correcting the language is to improve, update and adjust it to reflect current sensibilities and proper usage. It is not meant to annoy people although it almost always does. Some words don’t keep up with the times. Like back when we agreed that not everyone who runs a meeting is a male so it’s silly to call us all chairmen. And not everyone who fight fires is a fireman and not everyone who catches salmon in the Pacific is a fisherman.

Other words were actually hurtful and needed to be changed out of respect. Retarded became developmentally disabled. Deaf became hearing impaired. A person with a same-sex partner preferred to be called gay, not homosexual. People with certain diseases asked to be called survivors instead of victims.

Changing the name of a big old boulder sitting in the river in Mendocino County will not have the same far-reaching affect on the language but it means something to historians and local Native American tribes. In renaming Squaw Rock the California State Historical Commission said the word squaw has a condescending image and has been used as a racial epithet.

The stories connected to the landmark are pretty good. It was dubbed Squaw Rock because according to one legend a young Indian woman, left by her Indian chief boyfriend for another, climbed to the top of the cliff, saw her former betrothed with his new woman below, picked up a big rock and jumped, killing herself and them.

Less operatic but no less violent, the Frog Woman legend holds that a creature half frog and half woman lived in a cave in the rock and devoured men after having her way with them.

Some people will probably continue to call it Squaw and others, in the interests of fairness and accuracy, will try out Frog Woman and eventually get used to it. These things take time. I sometimes forget and refer to flight attendants as stewardesses. And I’m never 100 percent sure whether to refer to someone as African-American or black until I ask.

Language is a living evolving thing. It needs to be cared for. Not abused. Now will someone please tell that to those loose tongues in Washington?

The working mother who squats in the field, gives birth, bundles the baby to her breast and goes back to the job might envy the high-tech working mother who enjoys such luxuries as a portable hands-free electric breast pump. Perfect for the career woman’s busy lifestyle, it allows her to pump while on her computer, putting on makeup, blow drying her hair, making dinner and doing laundry. There is also a car adapter in case the pump battery fizzles while on the road.

Oh, the wonders of modern maternity I thought while sitting in a circle of professional women at a baby shower. It was for my daughter, a full time writer and first time expectant mother seeking advice from her experienced multi-tasking peers. That’s where I first heard of the no-hands pump from a mother of twins who employs it during conference calls and while dashing in a cab across Manhattan to a meeting.

There were no games, as decreed by the mom-to-be, no women putting clothespins between their knees and dropping them in milk bottles. No spinning pencils on a string across the belly to determine the baby’s gender. Of course today’s expectant couples can discover  early on if they’re having a boy or girl.  What’s top secret, I learned, is the name. It is not okay to share potential names and even grandparents-in-waiting will not know until the baby pops out and the parents rip open the envelope and declare, “And the winner is Ezekiel.”

Parents not wishing to burden their child with too common a name can go to a handy website and track the most popular baby names. So far, for 2011, the top four baby boy names are Jacob, Ethan, Michael and Jayden, just in case you wondered. In the early 1970s when I gave birth we had to wait until the last push and the nurse to proclaim “it’s a girl.” But we started blabbing name choices as soon as we found out we were pregnant.

Maternity trends evolve. When I was a working mother I didn’t have a breast pump that you could charge with your car battery.  That didn’t matter because I didn’t nurse. Breast feeding was an alternative but not as routinely expected as it is today.   Natural childbirth was newly in favor and that’s as earthy as I got. My pregnant daughter just now realized that she was a bottle baby. Poor kid thought I was an all-organic mom.

Among her shower gifts was a diaper bag with special compartment for iPod and smart phone. And a stylish nursing cover to layer between her and the public while feeding baby, which everyone in the room but me seemed to know as a hooter hider.

She got a lot of good advice. Someone told her about an app she can get to tell her which breast the baby last fed from. Someone talked about hiring a night nanny, who comes in for occasional night duty to relieve sleep deprived parents. Another mother offered the name of her baby sleep consultant.

But the best advice she got is not much different from what mothers of every generation have told each other. Enjoy it all. Don’t panic. Trust your instincts. Babies don’t break very easily. Take a nap when the baby sleeps. Meditate when the baby sleeps. Slip off for a 30 minute hot bath at the end of the day.

I liked this one, too:  Figure out which restaurants and stores have diaper changing tables in the men’s room so daddy can share that chore.

And oh yes, buy wine in bulk.