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Leah Dunaief

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METRO photo

By Leah S. Dunaief

Leah Dunaief,
Publisher

A number of my relatives and friends were born in June, so that means lots of birthdays to celebrate. My dad was born in June, and so was my brother. My granddaughter’s birth, the first child of my middle son and daughter-in-law, lit up the month of June for me. She was the first girl in a long familial string of boys. Then there is my West Coast cousin and several friends who all made their appearance on Earth in the same month.

I’m not good at buying presents or mailing cards, but I do try my best to remember the dates and to extend happy wishes. I adore celebrations and the digital age has helped in that regard. I send texts and emails, and if I don’t think it will cause too much grief hearing my atonal voice, I call the person and sing a heartfelt “Happy Birthday.” 

I learned of the entitlement of birthdays when I started elementary school. Feeling left out, I watched as classmates offered cupcakes and blew out candles that their mothers brought to class, while I rued the fact that I was a summer baby: no classmates, no groups  to sing to me.

Little did I know then that my dad’s family never celebrated his or his siblings’ birthdays. Perhaps it had something to do with there being nine children and that they were dirt poor.

My unfortunate mother never knew when she was born. Her mother, who could have told her, died when she was an infant, and I guess no one else really cared. All she knew was that it was sometime during harvest season. 

Well, I changed all that.

I came home from school one day, I guess about second grade, and professed outrage at never having a birthday party. My parents, innocently trying to eat dinner, seemed at first puzzled, then embarrassed at the oversight. They asked me what a party would entail, and I explained about the cake, the candles, the guests and the presents. And when it was time for my birthday, they made amends, that year and every subsequent year until I was married.

I appreciated their response, even going so far as to assign my mother a birthday in the midst of October, which I assumed was harvest time, and which we then celebrated annually—I believe to my mother’s delight.

Did you know that birthdays are a fairly recent consideration?

According to “The Atlantic,” only in the middle of the 19th century did some middle-class Americans celebrate birthdays, and not until the early 20th century, when my parents were born, did birthday celebrations start to be a nationwide tradition. The magazine ties together birthday observances with the beginning of the Industrial Revolution, during which the matter of time became more of a focus generally due to factory and labor hours.

The song, “Happy Birthday to You,” the most popular song in the English language according to the Guinness World Records, is only somewhat older than its 100th birthday.

Supposedly two American sisters, Patty and Mildred J. Hill, composed the melody in 1893, but that’s disputed.

As the 20th century unfolded, birthdays became a time to honor ordinary individuals, usually with cakes and candles, but in some circles, with fruit. It has also become a reason for families and friends to gather, both to appreciate one of its members and to reunite, however briefly. Birthdays ending in 0’s and 5’s are particularly special.

Today, birthdays are often regarded by those experiencing them as a time for evaluating their lives. Have they met their goals? How are they doing compared to their contemporaries? Do they look their age? Are they living the lives they desire? 

It’s a day to be pampered by one’s friends and loved ones and to pamper one’s self. Some people go on trips. Others buy themselves presents that perhaps they have always wanted. 

And some, at the end of their day, breath a sigh of relief, knowing that they don’t have to face another birthday for a whole year.

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By Leah S. Dunaief

Leah Dunaief,
Publisher

Please note that we have added something new to the front page of the newspaper. In the upper right hand corner, next to our flag, is a QR code. When you open that code with your cellphone, you will immediately be transported to the home page of our website, and there you will find a button that says, “LISTEN NOW.” Click there and you will be able to hear the current week’s podcast.

Do you know about our podcast?

Each week, after the newspaper comes out, members of the editorial team sit around a table in the recording studio and chat about the week’s news for a little over half an hour. We talk about what lies behind the headlines and perhaps throw in other bits of information that may not have fit into the limited space in the paper. 

Called “Pressroom Afterhour,” our regular participants include Samantha Rutt, managing editor; Mike Vincenti, co-producer; and myself. At the other end is our audio engineer, Michael Dunaief, in California. 

Different reporters, who have contributed stories each week, join us, either in person or as a call-in, and give more depth to the stories they have written, as well as commentary on other articles. We also include sports, with our sportscasters, Bill Landon and Steve Zaitz, and a weekly round-up of the news. 

Sometimes, we invite guests, like Councilmember Jonathan Kornreich, historian Bev Tyler, estate lawyers Nancy Burner and Gail Prudenti, and SCWA Chairman Charlie Lefkowitz, when they have participated in the week’s events.

This week, beginning tomorrow, May 31, we have joining us Dr. Suzanne Fields, interim co-director of the new Center for Healthy Aging at Stony Brook Medical Center. A distinguished geriatrician, she speaks about the Center, its purpose and goals, and offers an insightful overview of the aging process. Interviewing her this week, both for the newspapers and on the podcast, is reporter Daniel Dunaief. 

The podcast is available after noon every Friday, can be heard from the car or wherever you have your cellphone, and is available throughout the ensuing week either from our website, via the QR code, the home page at www.tbrnewsmedia.com or Spotify.

Please join us for a better understanding of the local news and the fun of discussing what’s happening in our daily lives. We would welcome any comments from you, as well as suggestions for articles to be featured on future podcasts. 

This is a bit of news with a local perspective you might not get elsewhere. Ben Brown, a freshman pitcher for the Chicago Cubs, pitched seven innings of no-hit ball on Tuesday against the the Milwaukee Brewers before he was taken out of the game by the manager, after throwing 93 pitches, for fear of straining his arm. At that point, the Cubs led by the score of 1-0.

Now, Ben Brown is a graduate of Ward Melville High School in the Three Village School District. He is a hometown boy, drafted right out of high school, at the age of 17, by the Phillies, as we wrote in a comprehensive previous article a couple of months ago. Brown, 24, was traded to the Cubs and brought up from the Minors this Spring.

The reliever, after getting the first out, opened the door. The Brewers tied the game by the ninth inning.

Fortunately for the Cubs, they were able to score five runs in the top of the tenth, and although the Brewers threatened in the bottom of the inning, scoring two, the Cubs shut the door, winning 6-3. And all of the game was played by the Cubs with some of the team, including Brown, ill with a bug.

We will surely talk about this game on the podcast this week, even though neither of the major league teams is local. But Ben Brown is and is richly worth a shout-out.

This is surely a game he will never forget.

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The Metropollitan Opera. Photo from Facebook

By Leah S. Dunaief

Leah Dunaief,
Publisher

As much as I enjoy living on our beautiful Island, getting away for a quick break from the predictable routine and usual scenery is a delight. This past Saturday morning, we rode into New York City ready for adventure.

Six months earlier, we had ordered tickets for the matinee performance of the new opera at the Met, “The Hours,” a story about three women in different eras and locations, that takes place in a single day. 

Based on the Pulitzer prize-winning novel and the highly regarded subsequent film, the opera had won rave reviews at its premier the previous year and offered three fabulous singers, Renee Fleming, Joyce DiDonato and Kelli O’Hara in the leading roles. We figured it would be worth the trip just to hear all three on the same stage.

It was.

The plot uses Virginia Woolf’s novel, “Mrs. Dalloway,” as the thread that ties the three women together, although they don’t meet until the end. DiDonato as Woolf is writing the novel in a London suburb in 1923, O’Hara as Laura is reading it in 1949 in Los Angeles, and Fleming as Clarissa in Manhattan at the end of the century is reenacting the story.

The women have much in common. At various times, as the playbill notes, they are rapturous, fearful, desperate but always accepting. And the music carries and amplifies the story, as the times and places flow back and forth.

There was a light rain as we emerged from the opera house and found a place to eat supper. It was a leisurely meal as we marveled at what was coming next. At the time we had ordered tickets for “The Hours,” we noted that the evening performance was to be “Carmen,” which just happens to be my favorite opera.

Reasoning that we had much  cultural enrichment to make up for due to the losses forced on us by COVID-19, we splurged on tickets for that opera as well. So after we ate, we returned to the opera house for the evening attraction.

Two operas in one day!

Yes, we survived, although we were a bit woozy when it was all over, especially since Bizet’s “Carmen” is one of the longer operas. Stimulating but disappointing to us was the transfer of this classic 19th century opera set alongside a cigarette factory and a military base in Spain to a modern American truck depot in the industrial Midwest.

The plot was unchanged. “Don Jose, a naive soldier who is seduced by the wiles of the fiery gypsy Carmen, abandons his childhood sweetheart and deserts from his military duties, yet loses Carmen’s love to the glamorous [bullfighter] Escamillo, after which Don Jose kills her in a jealous rage,” is a quick synopsis from Wikipedia.

But instead of the bullring, we have a rodeo, and conspicuously missing are the exotic settings in the mountains and especially the seductive dance on the table at the tavern serving as a hideout for the gypsy smugglers.

Nonetheless, the music, well-known even as background to Saturday morning TV cartoons for early rising youngsters, is so forceful and the story so dramatic that by the later acts, the longstanding appeal of this opera again captivated us, and we left happy.

Using our one free night from our loyalty credit card points, we had arranged to sleep at a nearby hotel in NYC. As you might imagine, after all that operatic action, we slept exceedingly well. We found a good spot for breakfast the next morning; actually it was more like brunch. 

Stopping only to pick up some NYC bagels, we returned refreshed and thrilled to be back. Our neighborhood looked newly washed and appealing. As much as it is enjoyable to have a break from our normal routines, interestingly it is even more satisfying to come home. And the magic of live music continues to play in our heads.

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Pictured above, from left to right: Simons Foundation President David Spergel, Jim and Marilyn Simon, Stony Brook University President Maurie McInnis and Governor Kathy Hochul. Photo by John Griffin/Stony Brook University

By Leah S. Dunaief

Leah Dunaief,
Publisher

“What can I do? I’m only one person.”

How many times have we heard that lament? People excuse themselves from doing what they could, since everyone has some skills, to rectify a situation or help a cause by falling back on that one-liner. Elsewhere in these papers, we tell you about one man (and woman) who made an enormous difference in the world. Of course, it helps if you are a genius. 

Jim Simons was a genius. I knew him a little. He lived in Old Field and was a self-deprecating genius, except for the time he referred to himself during a talk he was giving to a small group as “Midas.” And he was right; he turned his understanding of mathematics into investments that made unprecedented amounts of money in much the same way King Midas, in Greek mythology, turned everything he touched into pure gold.

I remember, years ago, when I was traveling in Australia and I walked by a newsstand. Some magazines were propped up with their front pages displayed. I had to stop and stare for a moment because there was Jim’s face above the headline, “Highest income earner in the world” that year. It seems he had grossed four billion dollars, if I recall correctly. That was after he founded Renaissance Technologies in, of all places, beautiful downtown East Setauket.

If you want to make the world a better place, it helps to be a genius and to have fabulous sums of money. But that’s just the beginning of the story. 

As Jim once said, “It’s really hard giving away money…well.” He spent the last third of his adult life figuring out how and to whom he and his wife, Marilyn, should be donating funds.

The philanthropy I am most familiar with is Math for America. Being a mathematician, it’s not a surprise Jim was most concerned early on about how math was taught in the schools. Data revealed that the answer was “not very well,” or at least, not as well as it could be taught.

How to proceed?

Jim got his arms around the problem by starting with math teachers. He founded a nonprofit organization to support NYC public school teachers that eventually turned into a four-year fellowship program to increase math and science teachers’ skills.

“MfA’s role is valuing excellence in teaching and doing everything we can to keep great teachers in the classroom,” Jim explained. Part of the problem was the low pay. Math teachers often got hired away by business and industry, leaving a void in the classrooms.

He outlined the five core beliefs of his organization.

First was that teaching is a true profession, giving teachers enormous respect and financing.

Second was that great teachers are always learning. They strive to improve their depth of content knowledge, their expertise in teaching, and their ability to teach to the strengths of every student in their classroom.

Third is the necessity for deep collaboration within  a community of fellow experts to achieve ongoing growth.

Fourth is that regular evaluation of teachers is required to advance the profession.

And finally, fifth is by honoring greatness in the profession. That is achieved by celebrating, promoting and advocating for the best teachers, which raises prestige and attracts the best possible candidates to a career in the classroom.

Here are some impressive numbers that have resulted from that single organization, Math for America, founded 2004.

There are 1078 total teachers that have participated across NYC. Some 125 professional development courses have been offered by MfA in 2022-2023 that are focused on topics of equity and inclusion in the classrooms.

82 percent of MfA teachers have led professional development for their school colleagues.

400+ high quality STEM-focused courses have resulted each semester of which 75 percent have been led by MfA teachers.

60 percent of MfA teachers in NYC said they might have left teaching during 2022-2023 if not for their fellowships.

MfA has been recognized by the legislature of NYS and the U.S.Congress.

Thank you, Jim Simons.

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Pixabay photo

By Leah S. Dunaief

Leah Dunaief,
Publisher

When lilacs bloom, I think of my mother. That’s not only because they bloom around Mother’s Day, although that is part of the story. My mother loved lilacs, their color, their remarkable shape of many tiny flowers making one larger blossom, their incomparable smell.

My mother was born in Russia, came to New York with her family when she was four and lived in the house with her father, step-mother, two brothers, three sisters and one unmarried aunt in Corona, Queens until she married. And as she told me countless times, always smiling at the memory, the backyard was filled with lilacs.

After I moved away, I sent her armloads of lilacs on Mother’s Day. Each year, she would tell me I shouldn’t have, taking deep breaths to let me know how she loved their perfume.

Forty-one years ago, she died two days before Mother’s Day, surrounded in the hospital room by lilacs.

I wish you had known my mother. She was, to borrow from The Reader’s Digest, the most unforgettable character I have ever met. My father, who was no slouch himself, said she had enormous courage. She would go to court, representing whichever member of the family might have legal woes in connection with their businesses, and patiently explain to the judge what the problem was. She always won. 

She would have been a successful lawyer, had she been allowed to finish her studies. But when her father had a stroke in his 40s, she and her older brother were removed from school and sent out to work to support the family. She seemed not to know that she was not a lawyer as she argued her case.

Without a doubt, she was the matriarch and head of the extended family. Did I mention, she was incredibly bright…about most things? Not necessarily about me, however, As you might imagine, she had a strong personality and was accustomed to being in charge. I, on the other hand, disliked always being directed. My poor dad was habitually caught in the middle.

My father would remind me how much my mother loved me and that she was looking for what was best for me. I don’t believe that line of reasoning ever won me over, but I will say that I learned to love, and love deeply, from my mother and my father. 

Is love learned? If so, I felt how much my brother, my sister and I were loved and how my parents, if called upon, would sacrifice their welfare for us in an instant. I have tried to pass along that depth of feeling to my children.

My parents did modify their lives after my sister was born. Two years younger than I, she was  diagnosed with Down syndrome, a genetic disorder that is caused by an extra copy of chromosome 21. Mothers 35 and older are more prone to giving birth to children with Down’s, and my mother was 36 when my sister, Maxine, arrived.

It was my parents’ goal to help Maxine live as normal and complete a life as they were able to provide for my older brother and me. Some relatives urged them to put my sister “away” in a home for children with disabilities. My parents never considered that, instead protecting her with abiding love and care.

Both my parents accepted the challenge of raising my sister, but the larger share of that care inevitably fell to my mother. It was not common to see a child on the street with a disability of any sort in the 1940s, when my sister was born. Some people feared differences, others just stared. 

There was a social price to be paid. My parents willingly paid the social price, devoting their free time and resources to her care, happiness and well-being, making sure that my sister was properly looked after. She played the piano, loved watching baseball games in Central Park with my dad and me, and returned our love in equal measure. With infinite patience, my mother taught Maxine eventually to read and do arithmetic on a second-grade level.

My mother was a star.

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Michael Douglas stars as 'Franklin' on Apple+. Photo courtesy of Apple+

By Leah S. Dunaief

Leah Dunaief,
Publisher

Could the colonists have won the Revolutionary War without the aid of the French? “Franklin” is currently streaming on Apple+ and deals with that question as it also shows that founding father to have been quite human. An eight-episode story, it stars Michael Douglas, and I have watched five installments, starting with Franklin’s landing on the shores of France in December 1776. He did so at great risk, for had he been caught by the British during the voyage, he might have been hanged as one of the signers of the Declaration of Independence. His mission was to get France to supply and join the colonists in their struggle against the British, also enemies of the French.  

The plot, with its court intrigue, violence, spies, and photogenic 18th century clothing and luxury, along with both the brilliance and character failings of its polymath hero, make for good entertainment. And I came to wonder what eventually happened to two others who played a role at that time.

One was Temple Franklin, the illegitimate son of Franklin’s own illegitimate son, William, Governor of New Jersey, and Benedict Arnold, who provided the decisive turning point in France’s decision to join with the colonists.

Temple, who accompanied his 70-year-old grandfather, was 17 when they landed and served Franklin as his private secretary, keeping records as the Franco-American Treaty of Alliance was negotiated in 1778 and then the Treaty of Paris in 1782.

Temple became a European, embracing French culture, values and rakish friends. In no way was he able to emulate his grandfather. When he returned to Philadelphia with Franklin in 1785 at the end of the war, he did not fit in. Despite his grandfather’s efforts, he did not receive a diplomatic post, although he hungered to be appointed to the court of France. He returned to Paris in 1796, after a stint in London with his father, and died there penniless in 1823. A friend had to pay for his burial.

As for Benedict Arnold, he was a British military officer (remember, they were all British before the War) who fought with the Continental Army, and was responsible for the critical victory at Saratoga that convinced the French to join the war. He became a major general, and earned Washington’s complete trust when put in charge of the fort at West Point before defecting to the British in 1780. Later in the war, he rose to brigadier general and led the British Army in their fight against some of the men he had formerly commanded.

His name became synonymous with betrayal and treason.

How could that happen? Many historians say, “Cherchez la femme.”

Arnold mingled in Philadelphia with upper class Loyalists, living well beyond his means. Despite his several substantial military contributions to the Revolutionary War effort, he became enchanted with Peggy Shippen, and married into her staunchly Loyalist family. She was good friends with Major John Andre, who became head of British Intelligence. Arnold was offered 20,000 pounds if he surrendered West Point to the British, and Shippen passed messages between the two men.

As we know from our Culper Spy local history, Andre was caught with incriminating papers by American militiamen as he rode north to meet Arnold, who was warned of the capture. He fled across the Hudson and joined the British camp; Andre was hanged.

Arnold subsequently caused much damage in Connecticut, leading troops that burned down New London and slaughtered surrendering forces after the Battle of Groton Heights, just a few miles down river from the town where he was born and grew up.

In 1782, he and Peggy moved to London, where he was well received by King George III and the Tories, given 6000 pounds and an annual pension of 360 pounds, but shunned by the Whigs and most Army officers. He moved to Canada in 1787 to run a merchant business, but was extremely unpopular and returned to London in 1791. He died there ten years later.

Their lives were footnotes in history with two sad tales.

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METRO photo

By Leah S. Dunaief

Leah Dunaief,
Publisher

Elsewhere in this week’s newspaper, there is a section on financial matters. Continuing that theme, let’s look at the value of our homes and what that means for our lives. Taking out a mortgage and buying a house was always considered a popular path to security. A house was a piggy bank into which payments were deposited each month until the debt was repaid to the bank, or whomever the lender, and ultimately was totally owned by the buyer. A house, after all, is a home, a shelter and foundation for raising a family. One cannot live in one’s stocks or CDs. Besides, as an asset, it might increase in value over the ensuing years.

Best of all, the equity in a home guaranteed wealth for retirement. 

While some owners might continue to live in their original houses rent free (but not property tax free), others intended to sell the home, buy a smaller, two bedroom house or condo at a cheaper price, and live off the surplus cash or the entire proceeds if they wanted a smaller mortgage.

Sounds like a fairly risk-free plan, right?

In fact, something strange has happened. For the last couple of decades, interest rates on mortgages have been unexpectedly low. I know when my husband and I bought our house 50 years ago, for example, the interest on the mortgage was seven and five-eights percent. For those who bought in the 90s and sooner, the rates went down to two and three percent, which was even less with interest deductions.

What has happened?

Interest rates have zoomed in the last couple of years, as the Federal Reserve has tried to put the brakes on an overheated economy, the result in part of Covid. Many people rushed from the cities to what they hoped would be smaller, safer locations, creating a marketplace in which there are now fewer homes for sale—and incidentally raising prices. And builders, who were busy building large homes, then switched to apartment buildings. The smaller, one-story homes, ideal for downsizing, are scarce and pricey as they have disappeared from the market or become unaffordable. 

Further, longtime home owners with lower mortgages, though they may wish to follow the time-honored formula and downsize, are not about to give those up in order to buy overheated smaller houses at higher mortgage rates, if they choose to take a loan.

For the moment, retirees are stuck in their large, mortgage-free homes, with their faulty furnaces, unmowed lawns and unwelcome stairs. There might be buyers but where, then, to go?

For the moment, as The New York Times has observed in this past Tuesday’s paper, they are stuck.

I have a modest proposal for those folks. There are many young people looking to move out of their parent’s homes but can’t yet afford to buy a house with their partner or significant other. Some aren’t so young but don’t have the down payments or pay the high rents in new apartments. Older residents, who might be waiting for the real estate market to cool down, have empty bedrooms that could fill some of the gap. They could rent out those empty rooms.

Now I know that some people think they would never want to live with strangers and share their kitchens, washers and dryers, and so forth. Besides, how do they know how trustworthy these prospective tenants are?

Certainly any possible tenants would have to be checked out. There might be a business that does just that, even as they investigate caretakers, cleaning services and babysitters. After all, we welcome those people into our homes.

If we are thinking of renting, we could also envision a way to separate a section of the house, with its own entrance, for the tenants, and just share the common rooms.

The extra rent money is nice. The additional housing choices can be helpful. The situation can be a win-win.

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METRO photo

By Leah S. Dunaief

Leah Dunaief,
Publisher

“Don’t fall” is a good motto for people of a certain age. Bad results can happen from a fall, starting with broken wrists and arms, wrenched muscles and tendons, and the oft killer, broken hips. I know that. We all know that. I chuckle, sometimes, at the memories of the many times I have fallen off horses and face-planted on skis. It meant nothing when I was in my teens and 20s. It’s meaningful for me now.

So, yes, just recently I fell.

It happened by accident. It’s always an accident, I guess. No one ever falls on purpose. But this time, it seemed like such a benign situation.

I was visiting a dear friend in South Carolina and staying in her spare bedroom. I had been there several days, and together we were going to leave for a short road trip. We were packed, the car was loaded, and I just went back inside for one last look to check that I had taken everything. 

Nothing left in the bathroom, good, but as I started toward the bed, I thought I should toss the bedspread over the sheets. So I did that with my right arm, then as I turned left to leave, my shoes got caught in the skirt that hangs over and hides the mattress. This skirt was somewhat long, the edges draped on the floor, and they  tripped me as I tried to step away from the bed.

Down I went.

No doubt you have experienced that accidents seem to replay themselves in slow motion. As I twisted and fell, there was enough time for me to voice an unrepeatable expletive but nothing to catch hold of.

It’s almost eight weeks now, and the various parts of the left side of my body, especially my ribs, have almost healed. But with all this spring air encouraging us to greater animation, I thought I should issue the standard warning: don’t fall.

There are many places to be extra cautious about falling. First and most commonly treacherous is the home, especially the bathroom. Every surface in there is unforgiving. Put grab bars in the showers. Whatever the cost, it’s much less than a visit to the emergency room. Make sure those cute little bathroom rugs are skid proof or they may take you for an unwelcome ride. Think about walking slowly on the tile floor, which can be wet from an enthusiastic bath. Ditto for the kitchen floor.

Stairs can be dangerous. I have a rule that I never walk down—or up —steps without holding the banister. That is true even for two or three steps.

Have a light on, however dim, when you get out of bed in the night. You may have cleared the path to the bathroom beforehand, but you never know what may have occurred since then, like a pet nestled along the way. 

Don’t walk along with a bundle in your arms that blocks your view of the floor. There may be an obstacle in your way. If you bend over for any length of time, as when you are drying your feet, or are working in the garden, straighten up slowly and give yourself an extra second to regain your balance.

Speaking of outdoors, there are plenty of possibilities for falls there, too. A friend twisted and broke her ankle by just stepping off a curb carelessly and falling. Uneven pavement can be nefarious and cause you to trip. This is also true where two different types of terrain meet, as in grass and cement. And public bathrooms can have wet floors that are not always flagged. Office buildings, too.

For me, the worst danger comes when I am in a hurry. So the answer is to give ourselves enough time to do what we need to do. It’s okay to get somewhere we have to be a little early, but if we are pressed for time and rushing, we are courting disaster.

By the way, these cautions can also apply to those of a younger age.

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TBR staff, current and former, gather at the office for a celebratory lunch provided by DJ’s Clam Shack.

By Leah S. Dunaief

Leah Dunaief,
Publisher

It’s been quite a week for all of us. First we experienced an earthquake, and not an insignificant one. Centered in New Jersey, it measured 4.8 magnitude and was felt from Washington, D.C. to Philadelphia to New York City and even to Maine. That was followed by at least 11 aftershocks, one of which was 4.0 magnitude that struck nearly eight hours after the initial quake. This was the strongest quake for New Jersey in more than 240 years, according to the US Geological Survey.

I never felt the first one.

Although it excited millions of people across hundreds of miles, according to CNN, I was driving to a doctor’s appointment and never felt a thing. Others who were driving said the same. I guess if you’re traveling in an automobile, you expect the road to shake you up a bit.

When I entered the doctor’s office, however, I was amazed at the high pitch of voices and the animation of the staff members. “Did you feel it? Did you feel it?” I was asked. “The blinds all shook and the stools rolled.”

I felt like I had missed out on a memorable event.

Fortunately there seems to have been little damage and no injuries. The infrastructure was checked out; bridges and tunnels intact, subway lines moving normally, buildings sound, with only a handful of mild exceptions.

That was Friday. Monday we had a solar eclipse, as a band of total darkness 100 miles wide moved diagonally across North America from the West coast of Mexico to Newfoundland, Canada. The duration of total darkness at any given point was 4 minutes and 28 seconds. 

Millions of us donned special glasses and looked at the sun. Some thousands traveled to locations beneath the total darkness, in New York State around the Syracuse area, to view the full impact. We on the North shore of Long Island saw only 90 percent of the sun blacked out, but as a show put on by Nature, that wasn’t bad. While the light did become strangely grey and the birds and insects did get quieter, and the temperature perceptibly dropped, the drama was less but real. And it was a great excuse for a Monday afternoon eclipse party, of which there were many across backyards, back decks and parking lots facing west.

We can be casual about eclipses, since we have seen at least one of them before, in 2017, and understand that the world is not coming to an end. But the whole idea of huge bodies performing a ballet with each other across the heavens in an orderly fashion, when you think about it, has to leave you with a profound sense of awe and spirituality. It was an incredible performance.

The third marvel, back on Earth, was our celebratory 48th party for The Village Times and TBR News Media on Tuesday. We invited current and former staffers and some neighbors to a lunch provided in the parking lot by a fire-engine red food truck from DJ’s Clam Shack of Stony Brook. Even our mailman came. Paul Riggio, the owner, offered, lobster rolls, crab cakes, crab cake sandwiches, shrimp scampi rolls, hot dogs, coleslaw and quesadillas filled with a choice of lobster, shrimp, chicken or cheese.

We went to the truck window, gave Paul our order, and he gave us each a number. When that order was prepared, he called out the number and we received our food.

As it happened, the weather was perfect— not too hot, not too cool with a blue sky and a soft breeze. We could have eaten outside, but since there were no tables and chairs, we carried our lunch into the office building. As one of our guests said, there was a party in every room.

Cookies, inside, completed the meal. Then we went back to work.

It’s hard to recall each of those 48 years. They slide into each other, although we can remember particular incidents. It was wonderful seeing former staffers mingling with current members. The commitment is carried on.

We will recall this party as a tune-up for our 49th & 50th.

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The cover of the first issue of The Village Times in 1976 by Pat Windrow

By Leah S. Dunaief

Leah Dunaief,
Publisher

On Monday. April 8th, there will be two miracles: the eclipse of the sun in North America and the 48th birthday of The Village Times, the flagship paper of TBR News Media. While not in the same category, one being macro and the other micro, they are both remarkable in their own way. 

If someone had told me I would be sitting here, writing this column on my computer 48 years after we had sent that first issue to bed, I would have been both stunned and yet not surprised. When we started, I never thought we would fail. Such is the necessary optimism of the entrepreneur. By the same token, where have all those years gone? They can be recaptured in 2,496 issues since so far; we never missed a week.

As for the total solar eclipse, this is the second time in seven years that the moon’s pathway will come between us and the sun, totally blocking out the light on the Earth beneath for as much as four minutes, depending on location. It will take 70 to 80 minutes for the eclipse to become total and the same amount of the time for the moon then to recede from the face of the sun. The route of darkness will begin on the west coast of Mexico and move northeast diagonally to exit off the east coast of Canada.

One way for us to think about all those intervening years since 1976 is by remembering how old our children were and what they were doing then. My sons recall our having a table at the July 4th Bicentennial celebration sponsored by the Three Village Historical Society at which we gave out copies of the three-month old newspaper. It was a great setting at which to introduce ourselves, and we produced a special section for the event. My sons were 10, 8 and almost 7 at the time, and I’m sure I had them moving through the crowd offering newspapers.

My husband, who was an accomplished photographer, had taken the pictures of costumed patriots for the supplement, so the occasion was, for us, a family affair in addition to an historic one.

You might ask how the moon, which is 400 times smaller than the sun, could obscure that solar surface. The answer is that the moon is about 400 times closer to us, and so when the moon is in the right spot, they seem the same size. And when the Earth gets between the moon and the sun, which happens a couple of times a year, we have a lunar eclipse, an occurrence less spectacular than a solar eclipse.

You might also ask how a newspaper started by a handful of housewives and 10 minor investors could possibly compete with established weeklies that had deep-pocketed owners and long histories of publishing. That, truly, was something of a miracle. 

Our editorial staff was made up of smart mothers who felt captive in their kitchens and were looking for some sort of additional role in the community. They were willing to accept $5 for an assignment that they would then load their children into the station wagon and go cover, writing up the article after their children were asleep in the evening or their husbands came home to help with the family duties. 

And that was after we were able to pay them the fee. Now they were “professionals.” For the first couple of years, we couldn’t pay them anything. Without too much hubris, I want to salute their intelligence and dedication to starting something we felt was of value and would serve our community and ultimately our democracy. 

A prominent message of the Bicentennial was the need for accurate information in order for people to govern wisely themselves. That is why the first amendment to the Constitution guarantees freedom of the press and the national treasury partially subsidizes newspapers with discounted postage rates to this day.

We at TBR News Media continue to consider it a privilege to serve you by casting light on current issues. 

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