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D. None of the above

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Courtesy of DC Comics

By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

How come we never see superheroes in regular moments? To that end, I wanted to share a host of images that I hope might brighten your day (if you need it).

Superman picking his nose. Okay, let’s just get this one out of the way first. Sure, he leaps tall buildings in a single bound, fights crime everywhere, and stands for truth, justice and the American way, but what about the urge to clean out the dried super boogers in his nose? And, if he did, what would happen to them? Would they decay the way ours presumably do, or would they be like rocks trickling through our plumbing or remaining forever on the floor, impenetrable even to a speeding bullet?

Okay, backing off from the incredibly crude, let’s go to Superman’s fingernails. I’m guessing he can’t clip them with an average clipper. When he does trim then, are they so strong that it’d hurt to step on them?

How about Batman? Is there room in that suit for hiccups? What happens when he’s driving his super fast car or flying bat mobile and he gets the hiccups? I know my hiccups, which are loud enough to cause Superman’s super fingernails to bend, are so distracting that it’d be tough to fight crime, or even navigate at incredible speeds, when my diaphragm is spasming.

And then there’s Wonder Woman. Lynda Carter, if you’re old enough, and Gal Gadot, for the more modern fan, are both incredible fighters who save the day, rescuing mere mortals like Steve Trevor. But do they have the kind of arguments with their mothers that I’ve seen other women (no one in my family, of course) have with their mothers? Are they tempted to take out their truth lasso and demand that their mother say what she really thinks or share what she really did? Can you imagine Wonder Woman in a shouting match with her mother, reaching a point where she wraps the rope around her mom’s wrist and demands to know, “What do you really think of my new boyfriend” or even “you mean to tell me you never acted out against your own parents?”

How about Aquaman? Not to be too obsessed about the nose here, but does he ever get water up his nose, the way the rest of us do when we’re diving or doing awkward flips into the pool? Given the speed at which he swims, I would imagine such water in his nose might cause even more agony for him than it does for the rest of us, who find the dense medium of water difficult to traverse rapidly.

What about the Flash?

I haven’t seen the recent multiverse movie with him, but I would imagine his shoes, which withstand the incredible force of him tearing around town, are a vital piece of equipment that could be enormously problematic if they tear or have holes.And, unlike me, as I sit here with the tongue of my right sneaker hanging off, I would imagine he couldn’t wait any length of time to replace the shoes that glide over the ground at speeds that, if my interpretation of the recent movie trailers suggest, exceed the speed of light and can, to borrow from the singing superhero Cher, “turn back time.”

Sorry if you’ve now got that song ricocheting around your head. Come up with a better song and you’ll be fine or maybe just count backwards from 20 in French or any foreign language, if you know how to do that.

And what about Spider-Man? Does he ever eat something that totally disagrees with his system, making it impossible to leave the house until he’s taken a super dose of an antacid? Sure, super heroes inspire us with their incredible deeds, but I’d like to know how they manage through the kinds of everyday issues, challenges, and regular stuff in our lives.

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Pixabay photo

By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

A pet peeve isn’t something you race out to the breeder, the pound or anywhere else to get because it’ll be a buddy for the rest of your life.

No, a pet peeve is some annoyance that routinely bothers you, like watching someone shake their leg in class or listening to someone blow away the four leaves that dare to fall on their driveway each day.

To that end, I’d like to share some of my own pet peeves, for no other reason than that it’s easier and, perhaps, more fun to focus on the smaller stuff than to worry about, say, global warming, the 2024 election, or the eventual burning out of the sun. Some of these are truly tiny, while others are considerably larger by comparison. If you find that annoying, add that to your own list.

—A perfect dive into a hotel or community pool: yes, it’s lovely and amazing, but people aren’t fish. We shouldn’t be able to enter the water without making a splash or a ripple. When we were teenagers, my brothers and I watched in amazement as a boy about our age perfectly pierced the water during a vacation at a pool in Quebec. Only later did we learn that he was the son of a national diving champion. He should have had his own pool and not unnerved the foolish Americans at a Holiday Inn.

— Endless, personal and vicious criticism at the end of articles: I can’t help laughing when someone writes about how stupid the idea of the article was. Often, someone else suggests that the person A. didn’t have to read the story and B. didn’t need to take the time to comment.

— The knees digging into my back on an airplane: do other passengers care that my back is on the other side of that thin fabric? Perhaps they want some attention or they are eager to share their physical discomfort with others.

— The overwhelming urge to tell me what my dog needs: one man, in particular, who seems to have moved into the neighborhood recently, tells me how my dog looks each day. Yes, it’s hot, and no, I’m not walking him so far that he’s in danger. By stopping me to share his unsolicited dog instructions, he’s extending the time my dog spends in the heat and he’s annoying me.

— The desire other parents have to tell me how to raise my children: news flash — everyone’s children aren’t the same and, oh, by the way, these aren’t your kids.

— The disconnect between the time our children spend on their phones with their friends and the difficulty in connecting by phone with them when they’re away: why are our children on their phones constantly when they’re with us, but they are unreachable by phone when we text them? They remind us that we tell them to “be where they are” when they’re not with us, but they’re not with us when they are with us.

— The people who listen so poorly that they say “oh, that’s nice” when I tell them my pet peeve died: enough said.

— People who tap me on the shoulder to get my attention while they are talking to me at a baseball game: yes, believe it or not, I can multi task. I’m capable of listening to someone else’s story and responding appropriately while watching every pitch and hoping for either a home run or a foul ball that comes my way.

— People who commit my mistakes to memory: I don’t expect perfection and readily admit that I err. If and when I share a thought about someone else’s mistakes, I sometimes receive something to the effect of, “well, you did that, too” or “what you did bothered me 17.28 years ago, too.” Okay, if it annoyed you, why didn’t you say something at the time, instead of waiting until now? Were you hoping I’d say something at some point so you could unburden yourself?

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Pixabay photo

By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

All the world is a stage and, yes, all the men and women are merely players, as Shakespeare wrote in “As You Like it.”

Recently, my life has been filled with scenes and moments in which I have observed pieces of people’s lives.

I’ll start with something small.

Standing outside JFK Airport, waiting for a ride, I watched two people share their displeasure with each other.

The burly man with the large shoulders and the technicolor tattoos down his arms turned to the woman with a colorful Jersey Shore outfit to give her a piece of his mind.

“You’re selfish and narcissistic and you only think about yourself all the time and I’m sick of it and of you!” he barked.

“Everyone can see you and hear you,” the woman said, looking in my direction.

“I don’t care,” he spit out through clenched teeth, as his ride arrived and he shoved their large suitcases into a small trunk. “I’m not embarrassed. You should be.” The suitcases weren’t fitting the way he was jamming them in, but that didn’t stop him from trying, causing the car to rock back and forth. His angry actions had become a manifestation of his mood.

Once the luggage was packed in the back, he walked directly into the street, almost getting clipped by a passing car, pulled open the door and threw himself into the seat.

With her head cast down slightly, his companion opened her door, took off her backpack and entered the car.

On the other end of the spectrum, I sat next to a woman on a plane who exuded optimism. Recognizing her joy of hiking, her fiancee asked her to marry him at Acadia National Park. After their engagement, they stopped in Boston to attend a concert, which is her fiancee’s personal passion. Whenever they travel, they find time to hike and to hear live music.

A sales representative for a consumer company, she shared that she was a “people person” and that she was traveling on her own to see her family and to attend a bridal shower, while her fiancee stayed home to watch their dogs.

When she’s having a terrible day, she buys a stranger a coffee or breakfast, which invariably makes her feel better.

As I mentioned in an earlier column, I not only had jury duty recently, but I served on another criminal case.

This one wasn’t quite as straightforward and it involved domestic violence. While I won’t go into the details of the case now (more coming on this at a later date), I will share how much I appreciated getting to know the other 13 members (with the two alternates) of the jury.

Even though we all were eager to return to our lives, we took the deliberations seriously and didn’t race to a verdict. We assumed the mantle of responsibility that comes with serving on a jury. We didn’t agree during the discussions, with one woman repeating that she was “sorry” she couldn’t join the majority. We assured her that, as the judge suggested, each of us should listen to the others while remaining true to our beliefs.

And, to end on a lighter note, while our flight was delayed for over an hour, I listened as a woman with a small dog spread out her blanket near a young couple.

Responding to a compliment about her dog, she spent the next half hour telling the couple how absolutely adorable her furry companion was. She interrupted herself to post something on social media, laughing that she posted a picture of her meal from Wendy’s just the day before.

“Isn’t that hysterical?” she asked. It’s something, I thought.

The man, who indicated he traveled every week for business, suggested how “sick and tired” he was of delayed planes. He planned to give customer service a piece of his mind when he arrived.

While I didn’t observe that interaction, I did watch as another man passed a one way exit where guards told him he couldn’t get back to the terminal because TSA had shut down for the night.

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A scene from 'Oppenheimer'

By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

My wife and I are wildly out of practice at an activity we used to do on dates.

Hey, I’m talking about going to movies. What did you think I meant? Never mind.

Anyway, after three and a half years, we finally ventured out to see a movie. No streaming at home, not taking a long walk through the neighborhood to see all the usual other walkers, and no hanging out in the backyard to look up at stars whose light was sent to us years ago.

I don’t think the light we can see was sent to us when dinosaurs were roaming the Earth.

We had purchased tickets online, with the customary and annoying convenience fee surcharge for something that couldn’t possibly be easier for the movie theater, and were excited to see a movie on the big screen.

Previews have always appealed to us, as has the satisfaction of seeing the entire movie from the start. When both of us were young, we found ourselves in movie theaters after the film began.

We’d sit in our seats and wait for the next showing, when we’d catch up to the point when we entered and, often with our respective families, head to the exits to piece together the narrative.

On a recent Sunday night, we drove through a packed parking lot. Clearly, the Barbenheimer phenomenon – the combination of hits “Barbie” and “Oppenheimer” – has brought the crowds back to the theaters that somehow survived the pandemic.

With almost no line, we breezed through the entrance and got on the short line for popcorn. Ah, movie popcorn. Yes, it’s much more expensive than it needs to be, and yet, we splurged for it many times as we prepared to suspend disbelief and enter the altered and captivating reality of a movie.

The concession didn’t sell bottled water, which we could fill with any beverage of our choice. We reluctantly agreed to buy the expensive cup and added ice cold water to our movie-time meal.

The days of waiting in line for the free-for-all of finding the best middle seats are long gone. We walked up to our wide, comfortable seats. When we didn’t immediately find the recliner button, the woman to my wife’s right showed us where it was.

Back in the early days of our children’s lives, when we were incredibly sleep deprived, those seats would have been a welcome opportunity for a solid nap.

Not this time. We were locked in and ready for the film. As is our wont, we quickly finished the first bucket of popcorn before the previews. I raced back for a refill and returned just in time for the start of several coming attractions.

Most of those previews looked somewhere between awful and horrific. If those were the best scenes from coming films, it may be a while before we feel the urge to return to the world of overpriced popcorn and comfortable chairs.

So, after all this time, are you wondering what we saw?

Well, we got sucked into the Barbenheimer vortex, opting for the World War II film instead of the late 50’s iconic toy.

With gripping subject matter and extraordinary acting from a cast ready to personify critically important figures from a turbulent time in 20th century history, the movie was compelling.

I can see why it received rave reviews. As a film watcher – okay, well, as a former passionate devotee of the silver screen – I wasn’t completely moved by the broad story telling.

As a science writer, which is the other hat I wear with privilege regularly for these papers, I was hoping there had been a greater description about the discoveries Oppenheimer and his collaborators had to make to complete the Manhattan Project.

At one point during the movie, I realized that we were watching the film on the 78th anniversary of the bombing of Hiroshima. The eery overlap brought home the complicated legacy of a talented scientist and effective leader.

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Giancarlo Stanton. Photo from Facebook

By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

The outlook wasn’t brilliant for the Bronx Bombers that day

The score stood five to zero, with one inning more to play

Then when Higgy died at first, Bader raised up hopes with a double,

Judge was up next, which could have caused some trouble.

With four hits against a Rays team with spring in their gate

Yankee fans were ready for yet another cruel twist of fate.

They thought, “If only Stanton could but get a whack at that-

We’d put up even money now, with Stanton at the bat.”

But Judge flew out to left and the game was almost done

some fans took to the exits, with few having much fun

So upon that stricken multitude a grim melancholy sat,

for there seemed but little chance of Stanton getting to the bat.

But Torres drove a double, to the wonderment of all

and Rizzo singled, creating a lift upon the pall.

And when the dust had lifted, and men saw what occurred,

there was Rizzo at first, with Torres standing on third.

DJ came up next and tapped a ball towards third base

he raced to first with a determined look upon his face.

The throw from Paredes was low, allowing Torres to score.

With Rizzo at third and DJ at second, the team wanted more.

Then from the few thousand throats and more there rose a lusty yell:

it rumbled through the city, it rattled in the dell.

It pounded on the bleachers and recoiled upon the flat,

for Stanton, mighty Stanton, was advancing to the bat.

There was grit in Stanton’s manner as he stepped into his place;

there was pride in his huge bearing without a smile on his fierce face.

And when, responding to cheers, he ignored all the sound.

no stranger in the crowd could doubt ’twas Stanton who would pound.

Ten thousand eyes were on him as he twitched in the batter’s box;

five thousand tongues applauded when he rattled in his socks.

Then when the new pitcher, whose name we won’t repeat

reared back for a pitch, he planted his foot, he dug in his cleat.

And now the leather covered sphere came hurtling through the air,

and that opener was a ball, which created a chance for prayer.

The next one was low, and Stanton took a hack

The only thing moving was that behemoth’s huge back.

The next one came in high and Stanton offered at the pitch

and yet again, he missed, causing angsty fans to twitch.

With but one more to go, the mighty Stanton stood ready

would he change the script, bringing dreams of confetti?

The pitch came down the middle, in Stanton’s favorite spot

he had his chance to tie this ugly game into a knot.

The pitch was 98 and as it bore down on the plate

Mighty Stanton took a swing, that would seal his team’s fate.

For on this night in the Bronx, as a wind blew threw the stands

Fans would not be cheering or clapping their defeated hands.

No, in a season filled with losses and offensive woes galore

the beloved home team would leave them wanting more.

And so, as the days blur one into another

die hards are left with a chance to mutter.

“Our team isn’t good, they don’t score to meet their needs

they turned a glorious Cole season into a footnote in the weeds.”

One day the Bombers will be back and get those needed hits

they will crush balls to corners; they will give pitchers fits.

But for now, my friends, as the team goes gently into good nights

we can picture better games from future boys in future fights.

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METRO photo

By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

They found me.

After several decades without my civil service responsibilities cropping up, I recently received a summons to appear for jury duty.

The summons brought back memories of a jury I served on years ago. While I was sitting in the courtroom waiting as a court officer chose names of potential jurors for a criminal case, a woman sitting next to me asked my name. When I told her, she said I’d be picked for that jury.

I smirked because there were 200 of us in the room.

Two names later, they called me. I looked back quizzically at the woman, who smiled and walked out of the room with the others who weren’t called.

I served on that jury. It was a buy and bust drug case. I listened carefully as the defense attorney questioned the under cover police officer who tried to buy drugs from the defendant.

When the defense attorney asked how many such operations the policeman had been on, the number was high enough to raise questions about how well he remembered this defendant.

The officer said he made notes, which the defense attorney asked him to read. Going through the notes, he described someone who was about the same build and age as the defendant. He also described a leather jacket with a specific insignia. That was not the defense attorney’s finest moment, as the defendant was wearing that exact same jacket to court. Whoops!

The rest of the trial wasn’t particularly memorable. On closing, the defense attorney suggested that the defendant became addicted to drugs when he served in Vietnam. The judge asked us to focus only on whether the defendant broke the law and not on how he might have gotten addicted to drugs.

After the judge sent us to deliberate, the foreman suggested that we take a vote. Who thought the man had drugs in his possession?

Every hand shot up.

Who thought he intended to sell those drugs?

Everyone but one person agreed.

We asked her about her concerns. She said she had ordered lunch and wanted her hamburger and fries. We told her we’d be happy to pitch in and give her money for a lunch if that was the only reason she wasn’t voting to convict.

Was that, we wondered, paying her for a verdict?

It didn’t matter. She wanted to wait. When lunch came, we ate quietly, waiting for the moment we could take another vote. The holdout said the burger wasn’t good and the fries were soggy.

Gnashing our teeth, we voted again. This time, we all voted to convict. One of the other jurors asked her if she had any other concerns or questions. She shook her head.

When we knocked on the door to let the officer know we were ready, he told us to wait. We spent another three hours in that room.

We returned to the courtroom, where the foreman announced our verdict. The defense attorney polled us all on both counts.

Once we were out in the hallway, I asked the prosecutor why we had to wait so long. She said the judge had held them in the courtroom, figuring that we’d have a verdict before lunch. When he heard we broke for lunch, he told everyone to leave and return in an hour.

Everyone but the defendant came back. The defense attorney spent the next few hours calling his relatives and trying to bring him back.

“What’s going to happen?” I asked.

The police would go to his residence and there would be a warrant for his arrest. He would also enter a database. How hard, I wondered, would the police search for him?

She suggested they would look, but that he was more likely to be caught committing another crime.

“He’s out because someone wanted a soggy burger?” I asked.

She shrugged.

With cell phones and an electronic footprint, the system today may work better than it did then.

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Pixabay photo

By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

We are miles, three graduations and almost exactly five years removed from leaving the first house my wife and I bought.

As a close friend prepares to move into the first house he and his wife will own, I started to reflect on the way that first house served as a backdrop for such a seminal period in our family life.

As the temperatures have soared recently, I recalled how our children, who were born in Manhattan, reveled in the chance to run through their own sprinklers. They raced in and out of the water, laughing as their bare feet gripped the soggy, cool ground.

We moved into the house when our daughter had just turned five. On one of her first walks around the neighborhood, she brought back an inchworm on her finger. Eager to share the magic of that tiny life with her mom, she carried it all the way back inside our house, where it disappeared into our steps moments after its arrival.

In the backyard, a perfect climbing tree called to our children. Both of them displayed considerable prowess in scaling that tree towards the top, reaching over 15 feet above us. Their grandparents were in awe of their climbing skills and a bit unnerved by the heights they reached.

Our son and daughter shared a blue swing set. At the top of a small rock climbing wall, they sat on a board sheltered from the sun and rain by a triangular blue cloth. There, they enjoyed ice cream and a few moments in the shade.

On the lawn, we and our children played kickball with their friends and relatives, tossed around a baseball and softball, and played games like Kan Jam.

The seasons each had their defining characteristics. In the spring, a bush by our driveway announced the approaching warm weather with a celebration of white flowers.

Amid a few memorable hurricanes, including the vicious Sandy, we sought shelter in our protected basement, where we slept on mattresses we lugged downstairs, away from howling winds and driving rain. Fortunately, downed trees which cut power for nine days and reduced the temperature inside to 50 degrees didn’t hit our house.

With one season moving both slowly and rapidly into the next, we watched in wonder as our children grew up, bringing hard-earned athletic trophies home and filling the walls with the sound of music that became increasingly melodic and precise.

Family members pulled up to our steep driveway, bringing carved pumpkins, presents and support for our children.

At the end of their treks around the neighborhood during Halloween, our son and daughter emptied enormous pillowcases or bags of candy onto our living room floor, lining up and trading the kind of candy haul that would have made Willy Wonka proud.

Often as my birthday approached, my wife and I spent more time than we probably should have making soft chocolate chip cookies.

During one particularly difficult summer, I developed my first kidney stone. Not wanting to wake anyone, I sought solace in the basement, where I contorted my body into positions on the same floor where we found shelter amid the hurricanes. In the middle of the night, my daughter came down and stood on my back, providing some relief.

Like its occupants, the house wasn’t perfect, with water that took a while to heat at times, bulbs that needed replacing, and appliances that didn’t always work.

And yet, that first house served as the launching pad for new days, dreams and friendships. My wife and I greeted our children’s friends and their parents, who sometimes stopped by for barbecues or to drop something off before the next activity.

As my friend prepares to enter the next phase of his life, I hope the house he shares with his wife bears witness to excitement and adventures that lay ahead, one magical inchworm at a time.

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Photo from Pixels

By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

Picture a cup.

Better yet, picture 100 drinking vessels, all of different sizes, lined up next to each across a long table.

Now, on a cold day, when you’re not that thirsty but could use something to warm your hands, you might choose a mug that allows heat to bring comfort against a cold wind and frigid temperatures.

On a hot day, when you’re running, gardening or watching your child play yet another sporting event, you might choose an insulated cup that has plenty of ice cold water. That container also might have condensation on the outside, which could give your palms a respite from the pools of sweat clinging to them.

When you’re handing your two-year-old a cup filled with milk, soy milk, water or juice, the container likely has a lid and a drinking attachment.

These cups can all be different sizes and shapes, can serve various purposes and can hold different amounts of liquid.

Even before you touch one of them or take a sip, no matter how eager you are for the liquid inside, you can imagine the feel of the cup in your hand, and you can gauge just how much your mouth and body can expect. You’re likely to take small sips of a scalding cup of hot chocolate, while you might down eight ounces of iced cold water in a matter of seconds.

What would you do if you had a cup mismatch?

Let’s say you were incredibly thirsty after a long run on a mid-July day when you pushed yourself to go further or faster than you had in months. Instead of a tall glass filled with water or a water bottle, you take out a shot glass. The water might be just as cold, but the amount could leave you wanting more and disappointed, even before you lift that small glass to your lips.

At various points in life, the size of the glass (OK, now I’m speaking figuratively) from which we drink doesn’t align with our expectations or hopes.

We want a day, an interaction, or an outing that fills a large cup, and, yet, the lived experience falls short of our hopes.

As a barometer of our expectations, the cup, like the small shot glass filled with barely enough water to wet our parched lips, can feel like it’s too small, leaving us disappointed and thirsty.

As we go through life, we, our friends, and our family members experience times – after a storm, amid a physical or mental health crisis, after leaving a satisfying job, to name a few – when the size of the cup, as a measure of the expected dose of happiness, coherence, joy, or meaning, falls short.

Those tough times become disheartening. We might lose faith or feel slighted or cheated. We need more to fill our cup.

While we can seek to fill the largest cup around with successes, accomplishments, support, and affection, we can also rethink the container.

A small child pouring water into a Dixie cup, for example, might be incredibly successful if a few drops make it.

As adults, the juxtaposition of our daily expectations against our experiences can dictate our mood and reflect our evaluation of the quality of the day. When something happens that reduces the likelihood of our achieving or enjoying our lives, we can feel like we’re holding a frustratingly empty cup that we have little prospect of filling.

Instead of being disappointed, we might consider reaching for a different container. I’m not suggesting that we aim low or that we stop striving for personal achievement and growth.

A smaller cup, however, breaks the iconic model of the optimistic half-full cup or the pessimistic half-empty container. Instead, we can choose to fill a smaller cup.

Over time, we can increase the size of the cup, filling it each time until it runs over.

This process might restore our sense of accomplishment and help us appreciate what we have and not lament what’s missing.

As life changes, we can redefine what we need to feel fulfilled.

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Image from Pixabay

By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

Okay, I’ll admit it: I’m a morning person.

Yes, sometimes, I’m an annoying morning person, ready to poke my wife in the arm, kiss her cheek, or play peek-a-boo with a son who can barely open his heavy lids to notice me.

No, my son is not two, and yet, I still have the urge to smile at him and play games in the morning.

I’m the lone morning wolf in my family. Even my dog, who is as far from a wolf as a dog could be, sometimes closes his eyes tightly when I get up too early for him, hoping I’ll go away or, maybe, I won’t see him. No matter how much his fur blends in with the carpet, it’s impossible not to notice a 95-pound dog.

On the other end of the circadian spectrum, I start to fade early each day. Surrounded by family and friends, much of the time, who enjoy late-night snacks, conversations, giggle fests, and games, I can barely keep my head up and my eyes open.

“You look so tired,” someone will say at about 10 p.m.

“Huh?” I’ll respond, trying to figure out if they’re talking to me. “Oh, yeah, well, I got up early today.”

I get up early almost every day. Getting up late for me means climbing out of bed after 8 am.

I’d like to alter my circadian clock sometimes, but I can’t.

Sensing my imminent departure into dreamland, my wife sometimes asks me a question or two at the utterly reasonable hour of 10:30 pm. I do my best to pick up my head and offer a coherent answer, knowing that the top few floors of my cognitive team have packed up, turned off the lights and tucked themselves in for the night.

The balance between the morning and night person in our marriage means that one of us can handle whatever time-sensitive needs or responsibilities might arise throughout the day. We have shifts.

When we go out on dates, which we can do on any given night as empty nesters, we typically lean towards the earlier side for our outings. The other diners at the early bird special are often decades older than we, although we also sometimes eat with families who have young children.

Our circadian differences extend to the seasons as well. I love the winter, when the sun isn’t too bright, and the air is cooler. Skiing is one of my favorite sports.

My wife, naturally, revels in the summer sun, basking in the extra sunlight each day and soaking up the warmth of the midday sun.

These seasonal differences also mean that one of us often feels energized and inspired by the season. With my wife dressed in numerous layers, we can take a stroll in cooler weather.

During those days when the sun bakes the sidewalk, and the humid air weighs on my shoulders, I can carry ice water or my wife can obligingly dump a welcome ice cube down my back.

Apart from the bookends of each day, we find times when we can give each other our best, reveling in the accomplishments of our children, observing the absurdities of life, and laughing at the differences in approaches to play between our dog and cats.

Even as we are in the middle of my wife’s favorite season, I enjoy the summer more than I otherwise would, knowing that she’s fulfilled and, when I need it, ready to search for a comforting ice cube sometime around mid-afternoon, when I prepare to pass the baton towards her favorite time of day. 

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Donald Triplett. Photo from Wikimedia Commons/ Ylevental, CC BY-SA 4.0 , via Wikimedia Commons

By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

At a recent national meeting of experts in his field, Matthew Lerner said the gathering paused to toast the remarkable life of Donald Triplett.

Born and raised in Forest, Mississippi, Triplett died on Thursday, June 15 at the age of 89, after a full life in which his family, his community and a medical and research field around him learned about a condition he helped various communities understand.

Triplett was different from other children growing up, and in 1943, after his parents brought him to psychiatrist Dr. Leo Kanner, he became “Case 1” for a new diagnosis called autism.

“Everything we know about autism started with what was learned from Donald,” said Lerner, associate professor in Clinical Psychology at the Stony Brook Neurosciences Institute. “I’m still confident the field would have found its way to autism,” but the interaction between Triplett and Kanner helped establish some of the parameters that define a condition that researchers estimate affects about one in 36 children today.

As with people who have other diagnoses, the reaction people have to those with autism varies.

“There are two broad threads in the history of how we’ve understood, studied and treated autism since the 1940s,” said Lerner.

In one, people consider it a lifetime disability, in which the diagnosis is limiting and stigmatizing.

In the second, people see autism as a different way of being, in which individuals have an opportunity to develop a meaningful and happy life, as was the case with Triplett.

“The idea of autism as being so different and so impairing was the prototype,” Lerner said. Triplett’s life “didn’t follow that trajectory at all. He had a life filled with community in which he felt supported and accepted.”

This second model of autism, Lerner added, is achievable in “far more cases than we may have historically assumed.”

Triplett, who worked at the Bank of Forest for 65 years and traveled the world, had unusual cognitive abilities that set him apart from neurotypical people. He could multiply two three-digit numbers rapidly without a calculator. He also could look at the side of a building and could indicate the number of bricks without counting them one by one. He had perfect pitch.

As he was growing up, he didn’t interact socially in typical ways for children his age. His parents institutionalized him for a year, where he became withdrawn and disinterested. When they brought him back to their home, he became more engaged, earning a high school and bachelor’s degree in French from Millsaps College.

“He may have been the first, but he was far, far, far from the only autistic person who ended up exceeding the horizons set for him when he was young,” Lerner said.

Lerner believed people in the autistic community, like Triplett, have something to teach others about challenging circumstances.

“Kids are going to get where they are going at their own pace,” Lerner said. Being patient and kind and taking time to meet people where they are as individuals can help people grow. Lerner suggested that “we need to be okay with the idea that what that person is going to be is themselves and the best thing we can do is create a space” for that development to occur.

People will develop when they don’t feel like they are failing because people around them are setting expectations that don’t match them or are underestimating what they can do, he added.

“It’s important to feel validated and valued” through life, Lerner said.

Parents of children from a wide range of abilities sometimes hear what their offspring will never do.

People are frequently “proven wrong” by that child in that family, he added.

As for Triplett, Lerner encouraged people to watch the movie ’In a Different Key” about the person later known as Case 1.”

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