He delved into numerous scientific fields — stem-cell research, genetic modification of food and DNA privacy among them — and sought to pinpoint the dangers.Sheldon Krimsky, a leading scholar of environmental ethics who explored issues at the nexus of science, ethics and biotechnology, and who warned of the perils of private companies underwriting and influencing academic research, died on April 23 in Cambridge, Mass. He was 80. His family said that he was at a hospital for tests when he died, and that they did not know the cause.Dr. Krimsky, who taught at Tufts University in Massachusetts for 47 years, warned in a comprehensive way about the increasing conflicts of interest that universities faced as their academic researchers accepted millions of dollars in grants from corporate entities like pharmaceutical and biotechnology companies.In his book “Science in the Private Interest” (2003), he argued that the lure of profits was potentially corrupting research and in the process undermining the integrity and independence of universities.But his wide-ranging public policy work went way beyond flagging the dangers inherent in the commercialization of science. The author, co-author or editor of 17 books and more than 200 journal articles, he delved into numerous scientific fields — stem-cell research, genetic modification of food and DNA privacy among them — and sought to pinpoint potential problems.“He was the Ralph Nader of bioethics,” Jonathan Garlick, a stem-cell researcher at Tufts and a friend of Dr. Krimsky, said in a phone interview, referring to the longtime consumer advocate.“He was saying, if we didn’t slow down and pay attention to important check points, once you let the genie out of the bottle there might be irreversible harm that could persist across many generations,” Dr. Garlick added. “He wanted to protect us from irreversible harm.”In “Genetic Justice” (2012), Dr. Krimsky wrote that DNA evidence is not always reliable, and that government agencies had created large DNA databases that posed a threat to civil liberties. In “The GMO Deception” (2014), which he edited with Jeremy Gruber, he criticized the agriculture and food industries for changing the genetic makeup of foods.His last book, published in 2021, was “Understanding DNA Ancestry,” in which he explained the complications of ancestry research and said that results from different genetic ancestry testing companies could vary in their conclusions. Most recently, he was starting to explore the emerging subject of stem-cell meat — meat made from animal cells that can be grown in a lab.Mr. Nader, in fact, had a long association with Dr. Krimsky and wrote the introduction to some of his books.“There was really no one like him: rigorous, courageous, and prolific,” Mr. Nader said in an email. “He tried to convey the importance of democratic processes in open scientific decision making in many areas. He criticized scientific dogmas, saying that science must always leave open options for revision.”In “Science in the Private Interest” (2003), Dr. Krimsky argued that the lure of profits had the potential to corrupt academic scientists’ research.Rowman & Littlefield PublishersSheldon Krimsky was born on June 26, 1941, in Brooklyn. His father, Alex, was a house painter. His mother, Rose (Skolnick) Krimsky, was a garment worker.Sheldon, known as Shelly, majored in physics and math at Brooklyn College and graduated in 1963. He earned a Master of Science degree in physics at Purdue University in 1965. At Boston University, he earned a Master of Arts degree in philosophy in 1968 and a doctorate in the philosophy of science in 1970.He met Carolyn Boriss, who was an artist and teacher and later became a playwright and author, in Cambridge in 1968. They married in 1970.She survives him, as do a daughter, Alyssa Krimsky Clossey; a son, Eliot; three grandchildren; and a brother, Sidney.Dr. Krimsky began his association with Tufts in what is now called the Department of Urban and Environmental Policy and Planning in 1974 and helped build it up over the decades. He also taught ethics at the Tufts University School of Medicine and was a visiting scholar at Columbia University, Brooklyn College, the New School and New York University.He began to explore the conflicts of interest in academic research in the late 1970s when he led a team of students on an investigation into whether the chemical company W.R. Grace had contaminated drinking wells in Acton, Mass.Dr. Krimsky has said that when the company learned that he would be releasing a negative report — the wells were later designated a Superfund site — one of its top executives asked the president of Tufts to bury the study and fire him. The president refused. But Dr. Krimsky was disturbed that the company had tried to interfere, and it prompted him to begin studying how corporations, whether or not they had made financial contributions, sought to manipulate science.“He spoke truth to power,” Dr. Garlick said. “He wanted to give voice to skepticism and give voice to the skeptics.”Dr. Krinsky was a longtime proponent of what he called “organized skepticism.”“When claims are made, you have to start with skepticism until the evidence is so strong that your skepticism disappears,” he told The Boston Globe in 2014. “You don’t in science start by saying, ‘Yes, I like this hypothesis and it must be true.’”He was a fellow of the American Association for the Advancement of Science and headed its committee on scientific freedom and responsibility from 1988 to 1992. He was also a fellow of the Hastings Center on Bioethics and served on the editorial boards of seven scientific journals.When he wasn’t working, he liked to play the guitar and harmonica. He divided his time between Cambridge and New York City.“Shelly never gave up hope of a better world,” Julian Agyeman, a professor in Dr. Krimsky’s department and its interim chairman, was quoted as saying in a Tufts obituary. “He was the consummate activist-advocate-scholar.”

In one of many scoops for The Times, he revealed how the tobacco industry had kept secret its own research showing that nicotine was harmful and addictive.Philip J. Hilts, who as a science reporter for The New York Times in 1994 exposed a tobacco company’s decades-long cover-up of its own research showing that tobacco was harmful and nicotine was addictive, died on April 23 in Lebanon, N.H. He was 74. The cause was complications of liver disease, his son Ben said.Mr. Hilts was a longtime journalist, writing for The Times, The Washington Post and other publications, and was the author of six nonfiction books on scientific, medical and social topics.His work on tobacco made headlines not only in The Times but also across the country. In 1994, he obtained internal documents showing that executives of the Brown & Williamson Tobacco Corporation were struggling with whether to disclose to the surgeon general what they knew in 1963 about the hazards of smoking; their own research showed that cigarettes were addictive and caused lung cancer or predisposed people to it.The Brown & Williamson executives, Mr. Hilts wrote, “chose to remain silent, to keep their research results secret, to stop work on a safer cigarette and to pursue a legal and public relations strategy of admitting nothing.”Mr. Hilts’s article, on the front page of The Times, appeared a month after top executives of the seven biggest American tobacco companies testified before Congress that nicotine was not addictive. Two years later, they were all under federal investigation for potentially lying under oath and were no longer leading their companies.The Justice Department eventually dropped its criminal investigation into whether the executives had perjured themselves. But in 1998, four tobacco companies and 46 states reached what was the largest civil litigation settlement in American history, with the companies agreeing to pay the states $206 billion over 25 years. Millions of internal company documents of the sort that Mr. Hilts and other news organizations had relied on were made public in the process.Mr. Hilts also broke major stories about breast implants, contraceptives and deceit in the cosmetic device industry. He was among the first reporters to cover the AIDS epidemic.An adventurous type — he was a scuba diver and world traveler — he wrote a dispatch from an active volcano a mile below the Pacific Ocean. He covered the confessions of a healer in Zambia who claimed to be “curing” AIDS. And he examined a law-enforcement practice of using hypnosis to “refresh” the memories of witnesses; his findings of problems with hypnosis led to the release of four men from prison.Most recently, he served as director of the Knight Science Journalism Program at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, from 2008 to 2014.His books include “Smokescreen: The Truth Behind the Tobacco Industry Cover-Up” (1996), which examined the industry’s 40-year disinformation campaign on cigarette smoking; “Protecting America’s Health: The FDA, Business and One Hundred Years of Regulation” (2003), a history of the Food and Drug Administration; and “Rx for Survival: Why We Must Rise to the Global Health Challenge” (2005), in which he described how wealthy nations can help fight the threat of new and resurgent outbreaks of disease around the world.Mr. Hilts was the author of six hard-hitting nonfiction books on scientific, medical and social topics.Philip James Hilts was born on May 10, 1947, in Chicago. His father, Edward, was a nonfiction writer who also wrote historical fiction for children. His mother, Katherine (Bonn) Hilts, worked at a Sears store in several departments, including as a switchboard operator.Philip was one of seven children and grew up mainly in Hinsdale, Ill., a suburb west of Chicago.After high school, he served briefly in the merchant marine before attending Georgetown University in Washington, from 1965 to 1967. He then dropped out and hitchhiked to San Francisco to participate in the “Summer of Love,” when the hippie and counterculture movements were in full bloom.He returned to Georgetown in 1969 but never graduated, deciding instead to take up journalism. He undertook short stints as a reporter and photographer at small suburban newspapers and at The Washington Daily News in Washington, D.C., and The Rocky Mountain News in Denver before becoming a freelance magazine writer.He joined The Washington Post as a staff writer in the 1980s, taking time out for a Nieman fellowship at Harvard from 1984-85. He moved over to The Times’s Washington bureau in 1989 as a staff writer until 1996, when he became a contract writer until 2002.Mr. Hilts received several journalism fellowships, including one that sent him to Botswana, where he taught journalism. Most of his fellowships were devoted to science writing.He married Mary Donna McKeown, a fellow reporter at The Washington Daily News, in 1974; she died in 1987. In 1993, he married Carisa Cunningham, who at the time worked for nonprofit AIDS organizations; they divorced in 2011. He married Una MacDowell, who was a researcher in math and science education, in 2013. They lived in Cambridge, Mass., and Rochester, Vt. He died in a hospital.In addition to his wife and his son Ben, he is survived by another son, Sean; two daughters, Alexis and Kate Hilts; a grandson; four brothers, Edward, Paul, Michael and Mark; two sisters, Jeanne Young and Elizabeth Hilts; and two children from his wife’s first marriage, William and Nora MacDowell Coon.At his death, Mr. Hilts was finishing a book about Lynn Margulis, a biologist whose research into the origin of cells helped transform the study of evolution, and who was married for a time to the astronomer Carl Sagan.

Her research advanced understanding of the brain and the origins of language — signed and spoken — and shed light on how humans communicate and socialize.Ursula Bellugi, a pioneer in the study of the biological foundations of language who was among the first to demonstrate that sign language was just as complex, abstract and systematic as spoken language, died on Sunday in San Diego. She was 91. Her death, at an assisted living facility, was confirmed by her son Rob Klima.Dr. Bellugi was a leading researcher at the Salk Institute for Biological Studies in San Diego for nearly five decades and, for much of that time, was director of its laboratory for cognitive neuroscience. She made significant contributions in three main areas: the development of language in children; the linguistic structure and neurological basis of American Sign Language; and the social behavior and language abilities of people with a rare genetic disorder, Williams syndrome.“She leaves an indelible legacy of shedding light on how humans communicate and socialize with each other,” Rusty Gage, president of the Salk Institute, said in a statement.Dr. Bellugi’s work, much of it done in collaboration with her husband, Edward S. Klima, advanced understanding of the brain and the origins of language, both signed and spoken.American Sign Language was first described as a true language in 1960 by William C. Stokoe Jr., a professor at Gallaudet University, the world’s only liberal arts university devoted to deaf people. But he was ridiculed and attacked for that claim.Dr. Bellugi and Dr. Klima, who died in 2008, demonstrated conclusively that the world’s signed languages — of which there are more than 100 — were actual languages in their own right, not just translations of spoken languages.Dr. Bellugi, who focused on American Sign Language, established that these linguistic systems were passed down, in all their complexity, from one generation of deaf people to the next. For that reason, the scientific community regards her as the founder of the neurobiology of American Sign Language.The couple’s work led to a major discovery at the Salk lab: that the left hemisphere of the brain has an innate predisposition for language, whether spoken or signed. That finding gave scientists fresh insight into how the brain learns, interprets and forgets language.“This was a critical discovery for deaf people, as it verified that our language is treated equally by the brain — just as we must be treated equally by society,” Roberta J. Cordano, the president of Gallaudet, said in a statement.Until then, sign languages were regarded disparagingly either as crude pantomime, with no rules, or as broken English, and deaf children were discouraged from learning to sign. The couple’s work contributed to a wider acceptance of A.S.L. as a language of instruction and helped empower deaf people as the Deaf Pride movement developed in the 1980s.Dr. Bellugi with the celebrated deaf actress Marlee Matlin in 2009.Family photoAnother subject that Dr. Bellugi and her husband studied was Williams syndrome. She sought to understand how the disorder, in which a set of about 20 genes is missing from one copy of a chromosome, changed the brain and ultimately shaped behavior.Her body of work, the Salk Institute said in a profile of Dr. Bellugi, “helped paint a picture of the biology humans use to interact with the world around us.”Ursula Herzberger was born on Feb. 21, 1931, in Jena, in central Germany, a center of science and technology. With Hitler on the rise, her family fled Germany in 1934 and eventually settled in Rochester, N.Y. There, her father, Max Herzberger, a mathematician and physicist, became head of Eastman Kodak’s optical research laboratories, a job arranged for him by Albert Einstein, his friend and former teacher in Berlin.Mr. Herzberger went on to develop a special lens that resolved the color distortion in glass. Ursula’s mother, Edith (Kaufmann) Herzberger, was an artist.Ursula attended Antioch College in Ohio, where she majored in psychology and graduated in 1952. She married Piero Bellugi, an Italian composer and conductor, in 1953; they had two sons before divorcing in 1959.Interested in psychology and language, she moved to Cambridge, Mass., where she became a research assistant to Roger Brown, an eminent psychologist at Harvard and the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, who was studying how young children acquire language. Soon she was studying at Harvard, where she earned a doctor of education degree in 1967 while raising her sons as a single mother. She also took courses at M.I.T., where one of her teachers was Dr. Klima.When they married, she changed her name legally to Bellugi-Klima but continued to use Bellugi professionally. They moved west when he began teaching at the University of California, San Diego. She started in 1968 at the Salk Institute, a 10-minute walk from her husband’s campus, where she also taught. She later taught at San Diego State University.At the time, San Diego was a hotbed of linguistic research, revolving largely around Dr. Bellugi and Dr. Klima, as well as colleagues who had come from Harvard and M.I.T. She attracted a parade of research assistants and made a point of hiring many who were deaf.Over the years, Dr. Bellugi received multiple awards. She was elected to the National Academy of Sciences in 2007. She retired from Salk in 2017 at 86.She co-wrote hundreds of papers and several books, some of them with her husband. Their best-known book was “The Signs of Language” (1979), written with 10 associates. It was the first comprehensive study of the grammar and psychology of signed languages and was hailed by the Association of American Publishers as the year’s “most outstanding book in the behavioral sciences.”In addition to her son Rob, Dr. Bellugi is survived by her sister, Ruth Rosenberg; her brother, Hans Herzberger; four grandchildren; and five great-grandchildren. Another son, David Bellugi, died in 2017.

After meeting the parents of children with a range of disabilities, she decided almost on the spot to start a clinic to treat such children exclusively.Dr. Margaret Giannini, a pioneer in treating developmental and physical disabilities, died on Nov. 22 at her home in San Diego. She was 100.Her son Louis J. Salerno confirmed the death.Dr. Giannini, an internationally recognized expert in the care of people with disabilities, was the catalyst behind what is now the Westchester Institute for Human Development in Valhalla, N.Y., north of New York City, one of the world’s largest facilities for people with developmental disabilities.A pediatric oncologist at New York Medical College, she was summoned one day in 1950 to the office of the chairman of her department, Dr. Lawrence B. Slobody. He introduced her to several parents whose children had a range of disabilities; they had not been able to find a doctor in New York City willing to provide them with general medical care.Recognizing the obvious need, Dr. Giannini decided almost on the spot to start a clinic that would focus exclusively on such children. That year, she founded the Mental Retardation Institute on the Upper West Side, which she said was the first of its kind in the country. She worked out of a basement because others in the building did not want children with visible problems coming through the lobby.“If ever a vital need and the right one to fill it were well met,” The Daily News wrote in 1970, “it’s in the person of Dr. Margaret Giannini and the field of mental retardation,” the commonly accepted term of that era.By 1971, she had raised more than $7.5 million to establish a new building in Valhalla. The institute provided diagnosis, evaluation and therapy. It also trained professionals and students in psychology, social work, speech, audiology, nutrition and rehabilitation.Dr. Giannini was dedicated to helping people with disabilities “before it became respectable,” she told The Daily News.“There was a feeling of hopelessness about it,” she said. “I think the feeling of many physicians was, ‘What do you want to bother with that for? You can’t do anything anyway — it’s just time-consuming and draining.’”She credited President John F. Kennedy and his family, especially his sister Eunice Kennedy Shriver, with helping to change attitudes and direct money toward research. The Kennedys took up the cause after they disclosed that another sister, Rosemary, had been born with intellectual disabilities and lived most of her life in an institution after undergoing a lobotomy.One of the many people who were referred to Dr. Giannini’s institute was Emily Perl Kingsley, a writer for “Sesame Street,” who in 1974 had given birth to a son, Jason, who had Down syndrome. Her obstetrician told her that there were no good alternatives to institutionalizing him, a common approach back then. When Ms. Kingsley refused, the doctor referred her to Dr. Giannini, who took Jason under her care.Ms. Kingsley’s experience served as the basis for a made-for-television film, “Kids Like These” (1987), written by Ms. Kingsley and starring Tyne Daly and Richard Crenna.Dr. Giannini portrayed herself in the movie. She was thrilled to join the Screen Actors Guild, her son said, and cherished her card for years.Margaret Joan Giannini was born on May 27, 1921, in Camden, N.J., the youngest of four girls. Her father, Francisco Giannini, a member of the prominent operatic Giannini family of Philadelphia, died of a sudden illness when she was a young girl. Her mother, Rose (Giordano) Giannini, struggled to raise the family by herself through the Depression, working in a beauty salon and taking on odd jobs like selling gum.Margaret, known as Peg, worked after school in the nurse’s office of the nearby Campbell Soup factory. It was there that she developed her interest in medicine.She started college at Boston University but left after a year because of economic hardship. She returned to Camden and enrolled at Temple University in Philadelphia.After her third year, she planned to go to medical school at Hahnemann Medical College in Philadelphia, which later became part of Drexel University College of Medicine. With World War II underway, students who wanted to become doctors were being accelerated through their programs.She never graduated from Temple and needed one more credit, in organic chemistry, to meet the pre-med requirements at Hahnemann. The only university nearby that was offering organic chemistry over the summer was Villanova, which at the time accepted only men. She enrolled anyway, but after she had attended class for a week, officials insisted she leave. Her professor offered to give her private lessons and said that if she could pass the exam, he would give her the credit she needed. She passed and began medical school in the fall of 1941.She graduated in 1945 — one of three women in the class, Hahnemann’s second to accept women — and did her internship at New York Medical College in Valhalla. A friend there set her up on a blind date with Dr. Louis J. Salerno, who had just returned from service as a major in the Army at the end of the war. They married in 1948 at St. Patrick’s Cathedral in New York.She kept her own name, which was highly unusual in that era. She and her husband were both professors at New York Medical College (she taught pediatrics; he taught obstetrics and gynecology), and she wanted to minimize any confusion.In addition to her son Louis, she is survived by three other sons, Robert, Justin and Mark Salerno; five grandchildren; and two great-grandchildren. Her husband died in 1988.Dr. Giannini’s work at the Mental Retardation Institute, of which she was director from 1950 to 1978, drew the attention of President Jimmy Carter, who appointed her the first director of the National Institute on Disability and Rehabilitation Research (now the National Institute on Disability, Independent Living and Rehabilitation Research).After Mr. Carter lost the 1980 election, she joined the Department of Veterans Affairs, where she expanded her work to encompass physical disabilities related to military service, including post-traumatic stress disorder, traumatic brain injury, blindness, deafness and other problems.In her second presidential appointment, President George W. Bush named her the principal deputy assistant secretary for aging at the Department of Health and Human Services. There she got to know Tommy Thompson, the secretary of the department, who appointed her director of the department’s office on disability in 2002.“She wanted to make sure that people who were underprivileged or had a handicap had the same chance as anybody else,” Mr. Thompson said in a phone interview. “She was a constant doer, always in motion, always doing something for somebody else.”She received scores of honors and awards throughout her life before retiring from federal service in 2009 at age 88. But she never really stopped working. A week before she died, she was pressing Congress to establish a federal holiday for people with disabilities.

She gave them a sense of identity and culture and helped legitimize American Sign Language, which she considered her native language.Barbara Kannapell, a world-renowned deaf activist who made it her life’s work to empower deaf and hard-of-hearing people with a sense of identity and an appreciation for their own distinct culture, and who advanced the idea that American Sign Language was a legitimate, foundational language, died on Aug. 11 in Washington. She was 83. The cause was complications of hip surgery, her wife, Mary Eileen Paul, said.As the daughter of deaf parents who was born deaf herself, Dr. Kannapell grew up in a supportive home environment, with American Sign Language an integral part of her development. A.S.L. is one of more than 300 signed languages in the world, with its own grammar and syntax, and it has given millions of deaf people in the United States a fully accessible language from their earliest days.Although Dr. Kannapell was comfortable with A.S.L., her hearing paternal grandmother insisted she attend a so-called oral school, in which children are not allowed to sign and are forced to try to speak.Throughout her early schooling, Dr. Kannapell felt the sting of what is now known as audism — rejection of people who are deaf. At one school, she wrote in a 2011 open letter, the principal tried to make her say “United States.” When she was unable to do so, the principal slapped her face. At another, students who could speak were rewarded.The oral approach, which emphasizes speech, lip-reading and the use of residual hearing, is still practiced today and has vigorous defenders. But Dr. Kannapell wrote that for her, oralism was destructive and made her feel like a failure. It “has contributed,” she added, “to self-hate and struggles with identity for generations of deaf people.”Still, she always had a strong sense of self, and with encouragement from her family, she forged ahead. Despite her early challenges — or perhaps because of them — she was determined to help deaf people shape a positive self-identity and celebrate their achievements.She considered A.S.L. her native language, and it provided the linguistic foundation for her to become proficient in English — which made her realize, she said, that she was bilingual. She is credited with taking the existing concept of bilingualism and applying it to the deaf experience — a breakthrough that recognized and elevated the value of A.S.L. and empowered its users.“Once I learned that A.S.L. is my native language,” she told The Washington Post in 1988, “I developed a strong sense of identity as a deaf person and a more positive self-image.”She was the first deaf person at Georgetown University to earn a Ph.D. in sociolinguistics (the study of a society’s effect on language), and she became a popular consultant, educator and leader in the deaf world. She conducted workshops on power and oppression and lectured across the United States, Central America, South America and Europe on the bilingual education of deaf people.She was a natural community leader. She was a founder of Deafpride Inc., a nonprofit advocacy organization, in 1972, and served as its president until 1985. The organization was dedicated to deaf consciousness-raising but also helped provide deaf people in the Washington area with access to programs, interpreting services and A.S.L. classes.As someone who had struggled with sobriety (at her death she had been sober for 50 years), she also helped establish an all-deaf group within Alcoholics Anonymous.Dr. Kannapell “was years, if not decades, ahead of her time in every way,” said Roberta J. Cordano, the president of Gallaudet, the only liberal arts university devoted to deaf people.Mary Eileen Paul“Dr. Barbara Kannapell was years, if not decades, ahead of her time in every way,” Roberta J. Cordano, president of Gallaudet University, the world’s only liberal arts university devoted to deaf people, said in a statement.“At a time when sign language was significantly doubted, devalued and undermined as important for learning and language development,” Ms. Cordano added, “she was one of the first to research and posit the importance of American Sign Language for all deaf children and adults.”Ms. Cordano noted that Dr. Kannapell “was also proudly ‘out’ and a strong advocate for the L.G.B.T.Q.I.A.+ deaf community, and a strong ally and leader in our community for removing barriers for Black deaf people” — especially in the realms of education and employment, as well as access to services.Barbara Marie Kannapell was born on Sept. 14, 1937, in Louisville, Ky. Her father, Robert Harry Kannapell, went into the printing trade, as did many deaf people, and became a linotype operator for The Louisville Courier-Journal. Her mother, Eleanor (Houston) Kannapell, was a homemaker.Both her parents attended Gallaudet, and Barbara, known as Kanny, followed in their footsteps, earning her bachelor’s degree in deaf education in 1961. She received a master’s degree in educational technology from the Catholic University of America in Washington in 1970. For her dissertation at Georgetown, where she earned her doctoral degree in 1985, she researched the attitudes of 200 Gallaudet students and found that 62 percent of them considered themselves bilingual in A.S.L. and English.After graduating from Gallaudet, she began a four-decade affiliation with the university, starting as a research assistant in 1962. Her last appointment there was as an adjunct professor, from 1987 to 2003. She also taught at the Community College of Baltimore County, where she started as an adjunct in 1997 and retired as an associate professor in 2014.She met Ms. Paul, who was a writer and editor and a consultant on women’s leadership (she is now retired), at a gay bar in Washington in 1971, Ms. Paul said in an interview. The bar had telephones at the tables so people could call other tables. Ms. Paul, who hears, was with a friend who called Dr. Kannapell’s table, but all the people there were deaf and couldn’t hear the phone. So Ms. Paul and her friend went over and introduced themselves in person.“I ran to the library the next day and looked up everything I could find about deaf people,” Ms. Paul said. She then met Dr. Kannapell for lunch, where they communicated in writing.Their relationship blossomed. When same-sex marriage was still illegal, they held a commitment ceremony; they married in the District of Columbia in 2013. Ms. Paul is Dr. Kannapell’s only immediate survivor.Among Dr. Kannapell’s many interests, she had a fascination with the experiences of deaf Americans during World War II. Over the decades, she amassed a rich store of data, including interviews with deaf people who had worked in wartime factories and material she received from deaf people and their descendants. She published an early summation of her research, “Forgotten Americans: Deaf War Plant Workers in World War II,” in the magazine of the National Association of the Deaf in 2002.Ms. Paul and various colleagues are planning to finish her project and publish it in the near future.

He disputed the Freudian view that dreams held encrypted codes of meaning, believing instead that they resulted from random firings of neurons in the brain.Dr. J. Allan Hobson, a psychotherapist and pioneering sleep researcher who disputed Freud’s view that dreams held hidden psychological meaning, died on July 7 at his home in East Burke, Vt. He was 88. The cause was kidney failure resulting from diabetes, said his daughter, Julia Hobson Haggerty.For some time, sleep was not taken seriously as an academic pursuit. Even Dr. Hobson, who was a professor of psychiatry at Harvard Medical School and director of the Laboratory of Neurophysiology at the Massachusetts Mental Health Center, joked that the only known function of sleep was to cure sleepiness.But over a career that spanned more than four decades, his own research and that of others showed that sleep is crucial to normal cognitive and emotional function, including learning and memory.In more than 20 books — among them “The Dreaming Brain” (1988); “Dreaming as Delirium: How the Brain Goes Out of its Mind” (1999), and “Dream Self” (2021), a memoir — he popularized his research and that of others, including the findings that sleep begins in utero and is essential for tissue growth and repair throughout life.“He showed that sleep isn’t a nothing state,” Ralph Lydic, who conducted research with Dr. Hobson in the 1980s and is a professor of neuroscience at the University of Tennessee, said in a phone interview.“He demonstrated that the brain is as active during R.E.M. sleep as it is during wakefulness,” he added, referring to sleep characterized by rapid eye movement. “We know as much about sleep as we do in part because of him.”One of his most influential contributions to dream research came in 1977, when Dr. Hobson and a colleague, Robert McCarley, produced a cellular and mathematical model that they believed showed how dreams occur. Dreams, they said, are not mysterious codes sent by the subconscious but rather the brain’s attempt to attribute meaning to random firings of neurons in the brain.This view, that dreams are the byproduct of chemical reactions, was a departure from psychological orthodoxy and heresy to Freudians, and it remains in dispute.But to Dr. Hobson, the content of dreams was not as important as the electrical activity of the brain during the dream state.His work became foundational for many other sleep researchers, including Carlos H. Schenck, whose team in Minnesota found a link between behavioral disorders during R.E.M. sleep — punching one’s bed partner, for example, or even jumping out of a window — and the likelihood in some of those people of developing Parkinson’s disease.“Allan Hobson helped us understand the dream abnormalities of R.B.D. right from the beginning in 1986,” Dr. Schenck said in an email, referring to R.E.M. sleep behavioral disorders.Dr. Hobson wrote about dream research in more than 20 books. “The Dreaming Brain” was published in 1988.Basic BooksDr. Hobson thrived on controversy, and it was no surprise to many that he challenged his own profession of psychoanalysis and its founding father. Even as a child, he constantly questioned the status quo. At 4, he took measurements and concluded that Santa Claus could not fit down the chimney.“I’m skeptical about any absolute set of rules, scientific rules, moral rules, behavioral rules,” he said in a 2011 interview with The Boston Globe. “That’s one reason why I don’t feel bad taking on Sigmund Freud. I think Sigmund Freud has become politically correct. Psychoanalysis has become the bible, and I think that’s crazy.”.css-1xzcza9{list-style-type:disc;padding-inline-start:1em;}.css-rqynmc{font-family:nyt-franklin,helvetica,arial,sans-serif;font-size:0.9375rem;line-height:1.25rem;color:#333;margin-bottom:0.78125rem;}@media (min-width:740px){.css-rqynmc{font-size:1.0625rem;line-height:1.5rem;margin-bottom:0.9375rem;}}.css-rqynmc strong{font-weight:600;}.css-rqynmc em{font-style:italic;}.css-yoay6m{margin:0 auto 5px;font-family:nyt-franklin,helvetica,arial,sans-serif;font-weight:700;font-size:1.125rem;line-height:1.3125rem;color:#121212;}@media (min-width:740px){.css-yoay6m{font-size:1.25rem;line-height:1.4375rem;}}.css-1dg6kl4{margin-top:5px;margin-bottom:15px;}#masthead-bar-one{display:none;}#masthead-bar-one{display:none;}.css-1pxllx6 header h4{font-family:nyt-cheltenham,georgia,’times new roman’,times,serif;font-weight:500;font-size:1.25rem;line-height:1.5625rem;margin-bottom:5px;}@media (min-width:740px){.css-1pxllx6 header h4{font-size:1.5625rem;line-height:1.875rem;}}.css-1pd7fgo{background-color:white;border:1px solid #e2e2e2;width:calc(100% – 40px);max-width:600px;margin:1.5rem auto 1.9rem;padding:15px;box-sizing:border-box;}@media (min-width:740px){.css-1pd7fgo{padding:20px;width:100%;}}.css-1pd7fgo:focus{outline:1px solid #e2e2e2;}#NYT_BELOW_MAIN_CONTENT_REGION .css-1pd7fgo{border:none;padding:20px 0 0;border-top:1px solid #121212;}.css-1pd7fgo[data-truncated] .css-rdoyk0{-webkit-transform:rotate(0deg);-ms-transform:rotate(0deg);transform:rotate(0deg);}.css-1pd7fgo[data-truncated] .css-eb027h{max-height:300px;overflow:hidden;-webkit-transition:none;transition:none;}.css-1pd7fgo[data-truncated] .css-5gimkt:after{content:’See more’;}.css-1pd7fgo[data-truncated] .css-6mllg9{opacity:1;}.css-1rh1sk1{margin:0 auto;overflow:hidden;}.css-1rh1sk1 strong{font-weight:700;}.css-1rh1sk1 em{font-style:italic;}.css-1rh1sk1 a{color:#326891;-webkit-text-decoration:underline;text-decoration:underline;text-underline-offset:1px;-webkit-text-decoration-thickness:1px;text-decoration-thickness:1px;-webkit-text-decoration-color:#ccd9e3;text-decoration-color:#ccd9e3;}.css-1rh1sk1 a:visited{color:#333;-webkit-text-decoration-color:#ccc;text-decoration-color:#ccc;}.css-1rh1sk1 a:hover{-webkit-text-decoration:none;text-decoration:none;}In one of his books, “Out of Its Mind: Psychiatry in Crisis — A Call for Reform” (2002, with Jonathan A. Leonard), he called for an overhaul of the profession.“I think people became disillusioned with psychoanalysis because it was, ultimately, a strange way of caring for people,” he told The New York Times in 2002.“There was this tendency in the psychoanalytic world to imply that everything was psychodynamic,” he added, noting that some doctors reflexively blamed mothers for their children’s behavior.But Dr. Hobson softened his views in his later years.“He came to believe that psychoanalysis could be useful for treating mental disorders,” Dr. Lydic said, “but he did not believe in a rigid symbolism in the interpretation of dreams.”For the most part, Dr. Hobson still believed, as the saying goes, that a cigar was just a cigar.John Allan Hobson was born on June 3, 1933, in Hartford, Conn. His mother, Ann (Cotter) Hobson, was a homemaker. His father, John Robert Hobson, was a lawyer.John attended the Loomis School, now the Loomis Chaffee School, in Windsor, Conn., graduating in 1951. He spent a year abroad, then returned to study at Wesleyan University in Connecticut, where he majored in English, graduating in 1955. He received his medical degree from Harvard Medical School in 1959.He married Joan Harlowe in 1956; they divorced in 1992. He married Dr. Rosalia Silvestri in the mid-1990s, and she survives him.In addition to his wife and daughter, Dr. Hobson is survived by four sons, Ian, Christopher, Andrew and Matthew; his brother, Bruce; and four grandchildren.After medical school, Dr. Hobson interned for two years at Bellevue Hospital in Manhattan. In lieu of military service, he served in the Public Health Service of the National Institutes of Health.He was influenced by Michel Jouvet, a neurophysiologist who discovered the region of the brain that controls rapid eye movement and who helped steer Dr. Hobson to study sleep and dreams.Apart from his research, Dr. Hobson was most passionate about his farm in Vermont, which he acquired in 1965 and had since been its steward.He converted part of one barn on the property into a small, interactive sleep museum and classroom for local students, basing it on his multimedia exhibit “Dreamstage,” which celebrated the art and science of sleep and toured science museums across the United States in the late 1970s. His museum featured, among other things, a preserved brain as well as artwork of brains.The farm was a gathering place for family and friends. Dr. Hobson’s children said that the dining room table was often the scene of celebratory recitations of poetry and song. Afterward, the kitchen would fill with the sound of Big Band favorites and become a dance floor.Dr. Hobson wrote in his memoir that he spent 10 years reading all of Marcel Proust — twice. He read 10 pages a day.“I simply admire his persistent and revealing self-analysis and his description of mental life in and at the edges of sleep,” Dr. Hobson told The Globe. “His self-observation is much more careful than that of Freud.”

Mr. Hanly had been central to the current nationwide litigation against pharmaceutical companies, pharmacies and others in the opioid supply chain.Paul J. Hanly Jr., a top trial lawyer who had been central to the current nationwide litigation against pharmaceutical companies and others in the supply chain for their role in the deadly opioid epidemic, died on Saturday at his home in Miami Beach. He was 70. The cause was anaplastic thyroid cancer, an extremely rare and aggressive disease, said Jayne Conroy, his longtime law partner.Over his four-decade career, Mr. Hanly, a class-action plaintiffs’ lawyer, litigated and managed numerous complex legal cases, involving among other things the funding of terrorists, stemming from the attacks of Sept. 11, 2001, and allegations of the sexual abuse of dozens of boys by a man who ran an orphanage and school in Haiti.But nothing compares to the national opioid cases that are pending in federal court in Cleveland on behalf of thousands of municipalities and tribes against the manufacturers and distributors of prescription opioid pain medications. The federal opioid litigation is regarded by many as perhaps the most complex in American legal history — even more entangled and far-reaching than the epic legal battles with the tobacco industry.The defendants — including every link in the supply chain of opioid manufacturing, distributing and dispensing — are accused of aggressively marketing painkillers while downplaying the risks of addiction and overdose. Their actions, Mr. Hanly has argued, contributed to the opioid epidemic that has raged across the country for two decades, killing hundreds of thousands of people who started abusing pain medications like OxyContin and transitioned to street drugs like heroin and fentanyl.“This has probably been the most complicated constellation of litigation that’s come to the federal court in my tenure,” Judge Dan A. Polster of the Northern District of Ohio, who is overseeing the sprawling case, said in a phone interview on Saturday. “I’ve been fortunate to have the best lawyers in the country on all sides, and Paul was one of them.”“He was an excellent lawyer, a consummate professional,” the judge added. “He fought hard. He fought fairly. And that’s what you want from a lawyer, from an advocate.” He said that Mr. Hanly had a leadership role “in helping to organize and make cohesive the plaintiffs’ side of the case.”Mr. Hanly, of Simmons Hanly Conroy in New York, played a leading role in the litigation as one of three plaintiffs’ lawyers appointed by Judge Polster to handle major aspects of the cases, including negotiations. The others were Joe Rice, of Motley Rice in South Carolina, and Paul T. Farrell Jr., of Farrell Law in West Virginia.At the same time, multiple opioid cases are proceeding at the state level. Mr. Hanly had also been preparing for a bellwether case against manufacturers and distributors that is scheduled to go to trial next month in Suffolk County, N.Y.He had long been at the forefront of efforts to hold drug companies accountable. He brought one of the first big lawsuits against Purdue Pharma in 2003 for failing to warn more than 5,000 patients about the addictive properties of OxyContin. His clients eventually settled with Purdue for $75 million. It was one of the few instances in which a drug maker agreed to pay individual patients who had accused it of soft-pedaling the risk of addiction.Mr. Hanly had a history of taking on complex cases with vast numbers of plaintiffs. Shortly after the 2001 terrorist attacks, he represented some of the families who had lost loved ones on the planes and in the World Trade Center. He also filed suit to stop the sale of tanzanite, a raw stone used as a cash alternative to fund terrorist activities. That lawsuit was expanded to include foreign governments, banks and others that supported Al Qaeda. Portions of it remain pending.Another of his important cases was a 2013 landmark settlement of $12 million on behalf of 24 Haitian boys who said they had been sexually abused by Douglas Perlitz, who ran programs for underprivileged boys and was subsequently sentenced to 19 years in prison. Mr. Hanly said the defendants, including the Society of Jesus of New England, Fairfield University and others, had not properly supervised Mr. Perliitz. Mr. Hanly filed additional charges in 2015, bringing the total number of abused youths to more than 100 between the late 1990s and 2010.“Paul was a lawyer’s lawyer,” said Ms. Conroy, his law partner. She said he was renowned for his exhaustive trial preparation, his creative trial strategies and his nearly photographic memory of the contents of documents.He was also known for veering sartorially from the muted grays and blacks of most lawyers to more jaunty attire in bright yellows, blues and pinks. He favored bespoke styles that were flashy yet sophisticated. His two-tone shoes were all handmade.“He was an excellent lawyer, a consummate professional,” the judge overseeing the nationwide opioid case said of Mr. Hanly.Simmons Hanly ConroyIn a recently published book about the opioid industry, “Empire of Pain,” Patrick Radden Keefe described Mr. Hanly as looking “like a lawyer in a Dick Tracy cartoon” with his bold colors and tailored shirts with stiff, contrasting collars. But none of this, Mr. Keefe made clear, diminished his competitive edge.“Paul was a man of few words and a commanding presence,” said David Nachman, who recently retired from the New York attorney general’s office, where he was the lead lawyer on the state’s opioid case and was working with Mr. Hanly to bring the case to trial in Suffolk County.“When he entered a room, everyone noticed,” Mr. Nachman said by email. “When he spoke, everyone listened, and when he smiled, you knew things would be OK.”Paul James Hanly Jr. was born in Jersey City, N.J., on April 18, 1951. His father held various government posts, including deputy warden of the Hudson County Penitentiary and hospital administrator. His mother, Catherine (Kenny) Hanly, was a homemaker.His family was rather notorious in New Jersey; some members had been indicted on corruption charges and had served time in jail. These included his maternal grandfather, John V. Kenny, a former mayor of Jersey City and a powerful Hudson County Democratic boss known as “the pope of Jersey City,” who was jailed in the 1970s after pleading guilty to charges of income tax evasion.Mr. Hanly took a different path. He went to Cornell, where his roommate was Ed Marinaro, who went on to play professional football and later became an actor (best known for “Hill Street Blues”). Mr. Hanly, who played football with him, graduated in 1972 with a major in philosophy and received a scholar-athlete award as the Cornell varsity football senior who combined the highest academic average with outstanding ability.Mr. Hanly was known for veering sartorially from the muted grays and blacks of most lawyers to more jaunty attire. Simmons Hanly ConroyHe earned a master’s degree in philosophy from Cambridge University in 1976 and a law degree from Georgetown in 1979. He then clerked for Lawrence A. Whipple, a U.S. District Court judge in New Jersey.Mr. Hanly’s marriage in the mid-1980s to Joyce Roquemore ended in divorce. He is survived by two sons, Paul J. Hanly III and Burton J. Hanly; a daughter, Edith D. Hanly; a brother, John K. Hanly; and a sister, Margo Mullady.He began his legal career as a national trial counsel and settlement counsel to Turner & Newall, a British asbestos company, one of the world’s largest, in its product-liability cases. The company was purchased by an American firm, Federal-Mogul, in 1998, after which it was overwhelmed with asbestos claims and filed for bankruptcy in 2001.Mr. Hanly and Ms. Conroy spent much of their time steeped in negotiations with plaintiffs’ lawyers. They soon switched to representing plaintiffs themselves.“We recognized over time that that was more important to us,” Ms. Conroy said, “to make sure victims were compensated for what happened.”Jan Hoffman contributed reporting.

He rose to folk hero status with his derring-do as a journalist and came to national attention when his daughter, Senator Amy Klobuchar, spoke openly about his struggles with alcoholism.Jim Klobuchar was a renowned sportswriter and general interest columnist in Minnesota for decades.Straight out of central casting, he was celebrated for his derring-do: He once held a piece of chalk between his lips while a sharpshooter took aim at it. He was a finalist for NASA’s initiative to send a journalist into space, until the Challenger explosion in 1986 ended the program. He scaled the Matterhorn eight times and Kilimanjaro five.And he could make readers weep, as when he wrote about a 5-year-old girl with a brain tumor who loved to ride the rails: “She was cradled in her mother’s lap on the observation car of the Milwaukee Road’s Hiawatha, a tidy young lady. A dying little girl, taking her last train ride.”But he did not come to national attention until 2018, when his daughter, Senator Amy Klobuchar, Democrat of Minnesota, mentioned him during the contentious televised hearings on Judge Brett M. Kavanaugh’s nomination to the Supreme Court.During her questioning of the nominee, Ms. Klobuchar noted that her father, then 90, was a recovering alcoholic who still attended meetings of Alcoholics Anonymous. She asked Judge Kavanaugh whether he had ever drunk so much that he could not recollect events. He turned the question back on her, a breach of decorum for which he later apologized. She accepted the apology, adding, “When you have a parent that’s an alcoholic, you’re pretty careful about drinking.”By then her father had been sober for more than 25 years. When she ran for the Democratic president nomination in 2020, Senator Klobuchar spoke often of his successful treatment and proposed spending billions of dollars to treat substance abuse.Mr. Klobuchar in 1974 at his desk at The Minneapolis Star, where we wrote a long-running column about whatever he wanted.Getty ImagesMr. Klobuchar died on Wednesday at a care facility in Burnsville, a suburb of the Twin Cities. He was 93. Senator Klobuchar, who announced his death on Twitter, did not specify a cause but said he had had Alzheimer’s disease. He survived a bout with Covid-19 last year.Mr. Klobuchar was long popular in Minnesota, even a folk hero. In addition to his newspaper columns — 8,400 of them by the time he retired from The Minneapolis Star Tribune in 1995 — he wrote 23 books, held a football clinic for women, hosted talk shows and for almost four decades led annual “Jaunt with Jim” bicycling trips around the state, stopping at pay phones along the road to call in and dictate his column. After he and his first wife, Rose (Heuberger) Klobuchar, divorced in 1976, he and Amy began taking long-distance biking trips to bond with each other.As a young journalist for The Associated Press, he experienced an especially heady moment the day after the 1960 presidential election, when John F. Kennedy and Richard M. Nixon were still neck and neck, with three states yet to report results. Mr. Klobuchar wrote the nationwide bulletin announcing that Mr. Kennedy had won Minnesota, giving him enough electoral votes to clinch the presidency. The scoop appeared in papers across the country.James John Klobuchar was born on April 9, 1928, in Ely, a small city on the Iron Range of northern Minnesota, where he grew up. His father, Michael Klobuchar, worked in the iron ore mines. His mother, Mary (Pucel) Klobuchar, was a homemaker.From an early age, Jim read The Duluth Herald, and his mother encouraged him to pursue a career in journalism, Senator Klobuchar wrote in her 2015 memoir, “The Senator Next Door.”He graduated from Ely Junior College (now Vermilion Community College) in 1948, then enrolled at the University of Minnesota, graduating with a degree in journalism in 1950.He landed a job as wire editor at The Bismarck Daily Tribune. But six months later he was drafted into the Army and assigned to a new psychological warfare unit in Stuttgart, Germany, where he wrote anti-communist material.He returned briefly to the Bismarck paper, then was recruited by The Associated Press in Minneapolis, where he scored his election scoop. He joined The Minneapolis Tribune in 1961 as a sports reporter, focusing on the Minnesota Vikings.He left The Tribune in 1965 for the competing St. Paul Pioneer Press, but it wasn’t long before The Minneapolis Star lured him away by giving him a column to write about whatever he wanted.Mr. Klobuchar in 2015. He came to national attention when Senator Klobuchar spoke publicly of his  overcoming alcohol addiction.Aaron Lavinsky/Star Tribune, via Associated PressThis was the heyday of print journalism, when newspapers sent their star writers all over the world. During the height of the Cold War, Mr. Klobuchar reported from Moscow. He covered the murder and funeral of Aldo Moro, Italy’s former prime minister. in 1978. He challenged the pool hustler Minnesota Fats to a game. He wrote about an air service that employed topless flight attendants. He played a reporter in the 1974 movie “The Wrestler,” with Ed Asner.But it was not all smooth sailing. He was suspended twice, once for writing a speech for a politician, and once for making up a quote in a story that he thought was an obvious satire.He also took his drinking too far, his daughter said in her book. For a time, heavy drinking was part of his colorful public persona. When he was charged with a couple of alcohol-related driving offenses in the mid-1970s, nothing much happened.But the public’s attitude toward drinking and driving underwent a sea change, and when he was arrested in 1993 for driving under the influence, he lost his license and was threatened with jail. He wrote a front-page apology to his readers. And in an accompanying note, the paper’s editor, Tim McGuire, said that Mr. Klobuchar had “endangered lives” and that the paper was insisting that he seek treatment.He complied. He entered an inpatient rehabilitation center, attended Alcoholics Anonymous meetings and found God. Ms. Klobuchar wrote that his readers forgave him.“It was his very flaws that made my dad so appealing to them,” she said. “His rough-and-tumble life growing up and his personal struggles had a huge influence on his writing. That’s why he was at his best when he wrote about what he called ‘the heroes among us’ — ordinary people doing extraordinary things.”In addition to Senator Klobuchar, he is survived by another daughter, Meagan; his wife, Susan Wilkes; his brother, Dick; and a granddaughter.When he decided to retire from The Star Tribune in 1995, Mr. Klobuchar told his office mates that he wanted no fuss, just to leave quietly. After he had packed up his things and was headed for the door, an editor got on the public-address system and announced: “This is Jim Klobuchar’s last day. That’s 43 years of journalism going out the door.”Everyone stood and applauded.

Calling herself a “hillbilly activist,” she started a health care clinic and offered other services in chronically underserved eastern Kentucky.Eula Hall was a tireless health care activist — so tireless that she wasn’t about to let an arsonist slow her down.Among many other things, Mrs. Hall operated the Mud Creek Clinic in eastern Kentucky for mountain people, many of them coal miners and members of their families. One night in 1982, someone looking for drugs set fire to the place. When her patients showed up the next morning to find that the clinic was gone, Mrs. Hall did not miss a beat. She and a doctor set up shop on a picnic table, had a phone installed on a nearby tree and kept their appointments.Her industriousness did not end there. She ran the makeshift clinic for three days before moving it into an elementary school, which was empty for the summer. The Appalachian Regional Commission, a federal development agency, then agreed to put up $320,000 to build a new clinic if she could raise $80,000.She organized charity quilt raffles, radio call-ins and potluck dinners and even staged roadblocks on the highway, where volunteers collected cash in buckets while the police looked the other way. She came up with $120,000. Her new clinic, with state-of-the-art equipment, opened in 1984. It is now called the Eula Hall Health Center.Mrs. Hall died on May 8 at her home in Craynor, Ky. She was 93. Her son Dean Hall said the cause was congestive heart failure.Mrs. Hall grew up in abject poverty and left school after the eighth grade — the high school was too far away for her to walk, and there were no school buses. But she was “exceptionally smart,” her son said in an interview, and she became a one-woman relief agency, transforming a chronically underserved portion of Appalachia through her clinic, which provided much more than health care.A young Eula in the 1930s. She left school after the eighth grade — the high school was too far away for her to walk, and there were no school buses — but she was, her son said, “exceptionally smart.”via Hall familyMrs. Hall, who called herself a “hillbilly activist,” was a social worker, counselor, psychiatrist and driver, picking up people who couldn’t get to the clinic on their own. Out of one room, she distributed free food at the end of each month, when people were running out of food stamps. She gave away clothes collected by churches.Many in the community contributed to her efforts; the Hall Brothers Funeral Home (no relation), for example, gave her a Chevy Suburban so she could deliver medicine to people who lived in roadless areas. She also ran the Mud Creek Water District, which she had helped organize, piping potable water to 800 homes.“Driven by her own experience with poverty,” Representative Hal Rogers, Republican of Kentucky, said in a statement after her death, “Eula dedicated her life to ensuring every person had access to medical care, regardless of their ability to pay for services or prescriptions.” She kept it afloat with grants, donations and, for a time, through a contract with the United Mine Workers of America.Her work brought her national recognition, and politicians liked to align themselves with her. “She had a good working relationship with President Johnson and gave Ted Kennedy a tour,” Mr. Hall said. “She got letters from President Clinton and George H.W. Bush. Jesse Jackson visited the clinic. And she had a good working relationship with Mitch McConnell,” the senior senator from Kentucky who is the Republican leader.A New York Times reporter, Peter T. Kilborn, visited her in 1991. “A slow-talking, soft-talking woman, she is an example of how a person with modest credentials, modest means and a homegrown vision keeps a distressed community afloat,” Mr. Kilborn wrote.“This is black lung country,” he added. “And in this remote coal-mining community of junked terrain, junked jobs and junked bodies, Mrs. Hall is a local legend who cuts red tape and badgers bureaucrats.”Mrs. Hall in 2007. She learned from a young age what it meant to speak truth to power, and she would do it throughout her life.Ed Reinke/Associated PressEula Riley was born on Oct. 29, 1927, in Greasy Creek, a coal town in Pike County, in eastern Kentucky. Her father, Lee, was a farmer and sharecropper. Her mother, Nanny (Keene) Riley, who was Lee’s third wife, had been a schoolteacher before she gave birth to seven children and later raised multiple nieces and nephews.One of Eula’s formative experiences occurred at the outbreak of World War II. She wanted to help the war effort, and when recruiters came to town she lied about her age, saying she was 18 when she was only 14, according to “Mud Creek Medicine” (2013), a biography of Mrs. Hall by Kiran Bhatraju, whose father was a doctor at the clinic.She landed work in a canning and munitions factory outside Rochester, N.Y. But she found the conditions unsafe and unfair and organized some of the workers to strike, unaware of the futility of making demands on the federal government in wartime.She was arrested and charged with instigating a riot. But the booking officer realized she was younger than she claimed and, instead of jailing her, sent her back to Kentucky. It was a trial run at speaking truth to power, which she would do throughout her life.Back home, she found work as a domestic, cooking, cleaning and taking care of children, all without benefit of electricity, plumbing or refrigeration.“Eula found solace in helping neighbors through tough times,” Mr. Bhatraju wrote.She married her first husband, McKinley Hall, a miner, in 1944. He was a heavy drinker who was more interested in making moonshine than mining coal, and he abused her physically, according to her biography. Her neighbors started looking after her, and she in turn started looking after them. She gradually became the local fixer for people in trouble.This included rushing a very pregnant neighbor to several hospitals, all of which turned the woman away because she didn’t have a primary doctor and couldn’t pay. At the last hospital, Mrs. Hall yelled at the intake nurse and threatened to call the local newspaper if the staff members wouldn’t help. They did, the birth went fine, and Mrs. Hall then took the woman’s plight to a meeting of hospital officials, where she unleashed a diatribe at them for allowing people to suffer.She read two influential books that reinforced her courage to speak out: “Night Comes to the Cumberlands: A Biography of a Depressed Area” (1963), by Harry Caudill, and “The Other America” (1962), by Michael Harrington. Both books helped inspire President Lyndon B. Johnson’s war on poverty — and Mrs. Hall.She participated in miners’ strikes throughout the region. She was elected president of the Kentucky Black Lung Association and organized frequent bus trips to Washington, where she lobbied for better benefits for miners and for widow’s benefits. She was often the only woman at the table.While establishing her clinic and trying to improve life in the hollers, Mrs. Hall was continually abused by her husband, according to “Mud Creek Medicine.” Despite a restraining order against him and their eventual divorce, Mr. Bhatraju wrote, he came back one night and beat her face so badly that she had to have plastic surgery, which her neighbors helped pay for.In addition to her son Dean, she is survived by two other sons, Troy and Danny Hall; a daughter, Nanetta Yates; eight grandchildren; 14 great-grandchildren; and five great-great grandchildren. Her second husband, Oliver Bascom Hall (no relation to McKinley Hall), whom she married in 1977, died in 2000.Mrs. Hall worked from home during the Covid pandemic, her son Dean said. Her latest plan was to start a nursing home.

His first company, Odwalla, was crippled by a bacterial outbreak; he then started Califia Farms, now a leader in the beverage industry.In 1980, Greg Steltenpohl and his hippie friends in Santa Cruz, Calif., bought a juicer for $250, began squeezing fresh orange juice and sold it out of the back of a Volkswagen van to support their real passion: playing jazz.Their little start-up quickly evolved, and by 1990 Mr. Steltenpohl and his friends had become pioneers in the premium fresh juice sector with a company they called Odwalla, named for a song-poem by the Art Ensemble of Chicago. With Odwalla’s natural ingredients and catchy branding, sales had climbed to $59 million by 1996. But the company was suddenly short-circuited that year by an E. coli outbreak in its raw apple juice, which killed a toddler and sickened scores of other consumers. Much of the company’s revenue vanished almost overnight.Mr. Steltenpohl, devastated by the harm his product had caused, left the company in 1998. But he regrouped. And after several years of smaller hits and misses, he built another company, Califia Farms, which makes almond milk, cold-brewed coffee and other nondairy products. Califia, with its distinctive carafe-shaped bottles, is now one of the most successful brands in the nearly $20 billion plant-based beverage industry.“For him to get blown up and then come back and do it again — that’s really rare,” Kiff Gallagher, a longtime friend who also worked with Mr. Steltenpohl, said in a phone interview. “Especially to do it in a way that was aligned with his values,” he added, referring to Mr. Steltenpohl’s commitment to being socially responsible, promoting wellness and protecting the environment.“Anybody can talk about it,” Mr. Gallagher said, “but he showed that it was possible.”Mr. Steltenpohl died on March 11 at a hospital in Los Angeles. He was 67. His son, Eli, said the cause was complications of a liver transplant he had nine years earlier.Mr. Steltenpohl believed that one could do well by doing good, and he became an early pied piper for the idea that investors should consider environmental, social and good-governance factors when evaluating potential business opportunities.Odwalla was an immediate success, and it scored several public relations coups. When Pope John Paul II visited Monterey in 1987, he was photographed holding a bottle of Odwalla juice. The brand was a favorite of President Bill Clinton. And Steve Jobs often carried a bottle during his Apple presentations. Odwalla went public in 1993.Mr. Steltenpohl, left, with Stephen Williamson, the chief executive of Odwalla, in Half Moon Bay, Calif., in 1992.Odwalla, via Associated PressBut it was partly Mr. Steltenpohl’s much-touted dedication to the purity of his product that contributed to the calamity of the E. coli outbreak.Most companies pasteurize their juices with high heat to destroy bacteria and prolong shelf life. Odwalla thought this unnatural process would interfere with the flavor, and instead froze its juices, which protected their nutrient enzymes, micro-organisms and taste.But it did not kill all the bacteria, and in 1996, a 16-month-old girl died after drinking Odwalla apple juice. More than 60 other people fell ill.Mr. Steltenpohl was generally praised for his quick response. He immediately recalled all apple juice products. He met with the families of some of the victims. The company quickly built a website, an unusual feature in those days, where it kept consumers up-to-date on what it was learning and where to get help. It also discarded one of its founding principles — that fresh was best — and started pasteurizing its apple juice.But pasteurization was not the only issue. The New York Times later found that in the weeks before the outbreak, Odwalla, in response to high production demands, had begun lowering its standards for accepting blemished fruit. And on the day the contaminated juice was pressed, production managers ignored warnings from a company inspector that a batch of apples was too rotten to use without taking special precautions against contaminants.With the company’s words about social responsibility coming back to haunt it, Odwalla pleaded guilty in 1998 to violating federal food safety laws in what officials said was the first criminal conviction in a large-scale food-poisoning outbreak in the United States. It also agreed to pay a $1.5 million fine and paid millions more to settle several civil suits.“The E. coli crisis was a very difficult period for my dad, for the company and for him personally,” Eli Steltenpohl said in an interview. “He was really shaken and heartbroken. It was the total antithesis of the company’s vision of bringing health to people.”During this period, Mr. Steltenpohl consulted one of his mentors, Mr. Jobs, who at the time was staging his famous boardroom coup at Apple to try to turn that company around.“Steve encouraged him to think outside the box and to look at the moment as one of an opportunity for innovation and progressive thinking and not as a defeat,” Eli Steltenpohl said. “That certainly gave my dad some necessary fire to pull through.”Odwalla never fully recovered. With the company on the verge of bankruptcy, its founders were forced to sell a controlling interest to private equity firms.The Coca-Cola Company acquired Odwalla in 2001 for $181 million, then shut it down last year. In doing so, Coke cited a need for corporate efficiencies and a consumer preference for less sugary drinks, though Mr. Steltenpohl had told The Times in 2016 that Coke never maximized the potential of the brand.“This is not what my dad envisioned for Odwalla,” his son said. “But that made the success of Califia that much sweeter.”In 2010, Mr. Steltenpohl was planning to start another juice company, but he switched gears when he saw the coming wave of nondairy milk alternatives made from nuts, coconut, oats and soy. While he was recovering from his liver transplant surgery, the hospital gave him a protein drink; he found it so distasteful, he told The Times in 2016, that he was inspired to do better, and he was soon churning out premium almond milk, ready-to-drink coffees and barista blends.He named the new company for Queen Califia, a character in a 16th-century Spanish novel who became the spirit of colonial California. Having learned hard lessons from Odwalla, he insisted on tight quality control, less sugar and more nutrition, and on keeping an independent ethos. By 2017, Califia’s bottled coffee was No. 1 in the United States.Greg Andrew Steltenpohl was born on Oct. 20, 1954, in Homestead, Fla. His mother, Benita (Desjardins) Steltenpohl, was a culinary entrepreneur and chef. His father, Jerome, was a civil engineer who moved the family in the 1950s to Southern California, where he worked for defense contractors. Greg grew up in the San Bernardino area.He majored in environmental sciences at Stanford and graduated in 1977. He then moved to Santa Cruz, where he and his friends started selling juice to sustain their band, the Stance, in which he played saxophone.“We’d deliver the juice to restaurants in the morning, study in the afternoon and play jazz in clubs at night,” he told The San Francisco Chronicle in 1993. His partners in both music and business included Jeannine Bonstelle (Bonnie) Bassett, a singer, whom he married in 1985, and Gerry Percy, who played keyboards.His first marriage ended in divorce in 2000. He married Dominique Leveuf in 2005; they divorced in 2020.In addition to his son, Mr. Steltenpohl is survived by his sister, Jan Johnson; his stepsons, Justin and Kevin Meade; and a grandson.Mr. Steltenpohl at Califia Farms headquarters in Los Angeles in 2016. By the next year, the company’s bottled coffee was No. 1 in the United States.Coley Brown for The New York TimesMr. Steltenpohl stepped down as chief executive of Califia Farms in September, although he remained on the company’s board. He bought a house near Mono Lake in central California, giving him easier access to the Sierra Nevada, where he liked to hike and rock climb. He was looking forward to spending more time with his grandson, Theodor, when complications from his liver transplant began to develop.He was proud that Califia had remained independent all these years, having told the BBC in 2017 that he hoped that one day the ability to resist a corporate takeover would become part of a new metric of success.Instead of celebrating quarterly reports, he said, “wouldn’t it be great if we were saying, ‘Wow, they managed to stay independent for 20 years, stayed true to their values, and they grew their sales too’?”