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D. None of the above

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Checklist. Pixabay photo

By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

Some people live from one list to another, checking off boxes only to create new tasks and new goals.

Some of the things on the list are manageable, like picking up medicine from the drug store, shopping for the ingredients to cook dinner, or bringing a friend to or from the airport.

Others are much broader and appear on the list almost daily, even if we take small steps to get closer to them, like getting a job, losing weight, or moving to a new apartment or a new city.

Those bigger goals, while important, can make these lists cumbersome and, seemingly, never-ending. Perhaps we need a few easily achievable tasks that reflect the reality of our lives. To that end, how about a few items from the practical, the mundane and the absurd:

— Walk into a room, forget what you needed, stand in the room for a moment, shrug and walk out. While that doesn’t happen every day, it has certainly happened to me. I’ve also seen it happen to others. Somehow, putting it on a list makes it seem like an accomplishment, rather than a reflection of the distracted state in which we live.

— Pet an animal while working from home instead of finishing an assignment. While deadlines help us accomplish our goals, petting our dogs and cats, or staring at our fish, lowers our blood pressure and soothes us. Take a moment to enjoy the fur of a pet who will likely appreciate the attention.

— Turn off the light in a room when no one is there. Yes, this is small, but it lowers the electricity bill. Checking off this box should be easy and it increases our checked off list. The devilish among us might “accidentally” turn the light off when someone is in the room.

— Take a power nap. Instead of feeling guilty about walking away from your desk or your dog, feel good about the few minutes you get closing your eyes to restore your peace of mind.

— Use a new word, like feckless as often as possible. Feckless sounds kind of angry and frustrated, which can reflect the frustrations of a feckless manager.

— Throw something. Try not to break anything or cause any damage, but the sheer pleasure of throwing something like a football, baseball or even a balled-up piece of paper at a garbage can offer a satisfying outlet and a way to offset the figurative paper cuts we endure each day.

— Stop at a yellow light. I know we’re all in a hurry, but if we put this one on the list, we can feel good about stopping when the light is about to turn red.

— Smile at someone. This one is so easy, and yet it’s worth putting on a list because we might make someone feel better during the day or offer support in an important moment.

— Be grateful. Anger is everywhere around us, particularly on TV, where talking heads share the latest outrage from here, from there, from everywhere. Be grateful for the person who stocks the shelves at the grocery store, the person who takes your insurance information at the doctor’s office, or for the emergency workers who stand by ready to help the rest of us.

— Watch nature do something cool. Enjoy the sight of a wave on the beach, the sound of the wind rustling through the leaves, the parade of ants climbing a tree, or the shades of yellow and orange light that the sun casts on trees and the sides of buildings as it sets at the end of the day and as you’re checking off your list of manageable achievements.

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Pixabay photo

By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

Once upon a time, the eight parts of speech came together to compete for supremacy.

Convinced of his invincibility, the arrogant noun stood on top of the mountain, rolling his eyes at the other parts of speech, assured of his victory.

“I am, without a doubt, the most important of the eight of us,” he declared. “I hope you’re not too disappointed when you all eat my dust.”

“You think you’re the best and the brightest,” laughed the adjective. “Without me, you’d be a bunch of people, places and things, without much flavor. Why, you’d be like vanilla ice cream without sprinkles, melting in the hot sun.”

“Well, sure, adjectives are helpful,” the noun acknowledged. “You’re like Robin to my Batman.”

“So, you’re the only superhero with any real value?” the pronoun asked.

“No, you and I are a team, right? You stand for nouns, with your ‘he, she, it’ and your ‘who, which and what,’ but, come on? Where would you be without me? I’m the king, the throne, the empire, the country and the world all at once.”

“Maybe, but people would get sick of reading the same words over and over if they didn’t have pronouns,” the pronoun argued. “I may have smaller words in my part of speech, but I take the place of all your huge words, without needing to repeat them all.”

“Good grief,” the interjection interjected. “Come on! I’m not only a conversation stopper, I am often followed by an exclamation point. See? Well, that’s a question, but I’m a forceful part of speech, dang it! Listen to me! I will win this ridiculous competition!”

Slowly and deliberately, the adverb hopped off his adverb couch, gracefully gliding over to the group.

“Seriously, the adverbs gleefully chuckling over there,” he said, pointing to a group of words with “ly” tails, “are highly useful and critically important.”

The preposition had heard enough. He climbed off the fence, down a hill, and near the others.

“The proposition of a preposition winning this contest is high,” she said. “We provide context for so many activities — on the roof, by six o’clock, beneath the surface.”

That’s when they heard a sound without end. When they looked for the source of the noise, they noticed an endless group of words strung together.

“Hello, all you other parts of speech,” the conjunction said. “I have endless storage space and can carry each you indefinitely. I can also sew together seemingly different ideas.”

The noun laughed at the conjunction.

“What good would all those connections be if you didn’t have the rest of us?” he snickered.

Whirring through the air, the verb appeared, disappeared, jumped over the group, slid beneath them, and ricocheted around the meadow.

“Hello everyone,” the verb snickered. “This competition makes me laugh.”

“Crikey! Why is that?” the interjection asked.

“Well, you’d be a pile of stuff without action verbs,” he said. “In fact, you wouldn’t even be anything without a verb. To do anything, to be anything, and to animate your actions, you all need verbs. We lift you off the canvas, transport you to other places, inspire greatness, and demand attention. Yes, all the rest of you have magnificent qualities (special thanks to the adjective for giving us ‘magnificent’), but verbs drive ideas forward, infuse life into your existence, and encourage discourse.”

“I’d be limited without verbs,” the adverb agreed glumly.

“No, verbs soar majestically because of you,” the verb offered reassuringly. “We count on you.”

“Hey! We’re all important!” the interjection concluded.

“That could be true,” the noun concluded. “I still think none of us would be here without me.”

“True, but you’re a long list of stuff that isn’t doing much and that lacks personality without the rest of us,” the verb said, wanting to have the last word. “Now, let the games begin.”

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Pixabay photo

By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

Sure, the book “What to Expect When You’re Expecting” could be helpful.

Until you’ve gone through pregnancy and had a child, you don’t really know what’s around the corner. Other parents sometimes expect you to follow their footprints to the promised land, which somehow didn’t always seem like the happiest place on Earth for them or their screaming kids.

You hear about terms like first, second and third trimester, which sound like safe little building blocks you might want to play with on the floor, stacking one on top of another while Mozart plays blissfully in the background.

But, really, so much of life, even during those days before childbirth, when moms are expecting, doesn’t follow a script or textbook cue cards.

My wife and I tried to keep at least a month ahead of the “nesting phase” and the “tired phase” among so many others in the books.

We went to Lamaze classes where, despite being in our mid 30s, we felt remarkably young in New York City compared to so many other first-time parents in their late 30s and early 40s who were sharing pregnancy stories and preparing to “breathe, honey,” and to count the time in between contractions.

Our birth plan went out the window when, after my wife’s three valiant days of pushing, our doctor decided to do a C section. How do you make important decisions when you’re beyond exhausted and when your excitement and anxiety seem to be in an extended foot race for your attention?

Just before the doctor started the procedure, she told me that if I passed out at any time, they were going to leave me on the cold, concrete floor, stepping over me to tend to my wife and daughter.

Fortunately, everything worked out, despite the challenges for my wife of recovering from abdominal surgery that made even the simplest of motions, like rising out of a chair, difficult and painful.

So, here we are, over two decades later, and we and others are still maneuvering around playbooks we’ve had to rewrite. It seemed fitting, given that it’s Mother’s Day this Sunday, to reach out to a few successful scientists — I cover science, so these are my peeps — to ask them a few questions.

IACS Endowed Chair of Ecology & Evolution at Stony Brook University Heather Lynch explained some of the best parenting advice she got was to think of “running the household like running a business, and outsource what can be outsourced with zero guilt.”

Cold Spring Harbor Laboratory Professor and HHMI Investigator Leemor Joshua-Tor, meanwhile, said she learned to trust her gut, especially for the timing of discussions with her daughter. As her daughter enters her teenage years, Joshua-Tor has taken more of an advisory role, letting her have more control over her life while offering a calming presence.

Joshua-Tor wrote in an email that she thought “my daughter would have a good role model with a mom that had a fulfilling career and work life.”

Joshua-Tor was pleased to hear her daughter bragging about her mom’s career.

Lynch, who studies penguins that share parenting duties, credits marrying well for her parental success.

She and husband, Matthew Eisaman, who has a joint appointment at Stony Brook and Brookhaven National Laboratory, “split things 50-50 and if I had to do even 51% of everything, I think this whole house of cards would collapse,” she explained in an email.

Amid the pandemic, which wasn’t in any parenting textbooks (but probably will be in the future), Joshua-Tor said she tried to keep her daughter positive while ensuring her safety.

As a parent, Joshua-Tor added, “nothing was as I expected, but how deep things hit you is a biggy.”

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Pixabay photo

By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

Finally, two years later, we were going to see Billy Joel. We had bought tickets to a concert in April of 2020, which was canceled because of the pandemic. The rescheduled event last year was also delayed.

An anticipation had been building that reminded me of the seemingly endless three years between the end of the Star Wars film “The Empire Strikes Back” and “Return of the Jedi.”

Within a few blocks of the stadium, we ran into the heaviest traffic we’d experienced in Charlotte, North Carolina since we arrived four years ago. My wife asked if I wanted her to park the car so I could make sure I was in our seats on time. I declined, knowing I didn’t want to experience any part of the evening without her.

While we sat in our car, waiting for the slow line to move, we watched as many of the people heading to the stadium were our age or older. We were either being nostalgic or hoping Billy Joel’s music could be our musical time machine.

We arrived at the stadium well before the 8 pm start time, where every seat gradually filled. When Joel started the concert at 8:30 with “My Life,” the packed crowd roared its heartfelt approval.

The weight of time — the two years anticipating this concert and the decades that passed since I first enjoyed the song’s lyrics and melody — quickly slipped off my shoulders.

Flashing lights from the stage and enlarged images of Billy Joel’s 72-year old fingers dancing across the piano keys created a visual spectacle. Accompanied by saxophone and trumpet players who would have blown the roof off the building if there were one, Joel thanked the crowd for coming after a long delay.

With songs from several albums through the 70s and 80s, Joel shared some of his biggest hits. People in the crowd played their own version of the show “Name that tune,” shouting out the song’s title as quickly as possible.

Thanks to Linda Ronstadt, who Joel said encouraged him to play “Just the Way You Are,” he included that love song. Joel said he and his wife, for whom he wrote that song, got divorced, so people shouldn’t listen to him.

But listen to him and his music we did. When the lights were off, the packed crowd swayed back and forth, holding up cell phones with lit camera lights, the way previous generations of concertgoers held up their lighters.

As he’s done at other concerts I attended, Joel stopped singing and the band stopped playing during “Piano Man” while the audience sang the chorus, “Sing us a song you’re the piano man. Sing us a song tonight. Well, we’re all in the mood for a melody and you’ve got us feeling alright.” I’m sure I wasn’t the only one with a smirk and goosebumps.

Swaying and singing in our seats, we were active participants in this long-awaited evening out, allowing ourselves to enjoy moments of unity.

Not as spry as he’d been decades ago, Joel moved more gingerly. He still shared his storytelling and lyrical voice, captivating an appreciative crowd. In between tunes, he noodled at the piano, as if he weren’t in an enormous football stadium in North Carolina below the image of a ferocious panther but was, rather, in a piano bar somewhere in New York City. He said the “key” to his longevity was “not dying.”

When the nighttime air got too hot for us, a light wind, which is uncharacteristic for Charlotte, washed over our skin. Leaning in, my wife smiled and whispered, “cue the breeze.”

The music itself reached much deeper than the wind, refreshing our souls and allowing us to revisit people like Sergeant O’Leary, the old man making love to his tonic and gin, and the “Big Shot.”

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Pixabay photo

By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

We all try, more or less, to say the right thing in the moment.

“Wow, so nice to see you again. You look wonderful.”

“How are your children?”

“How’s work? How many days a week are you back in person?”

But after cutting up turkeys, ham and other food, the real carving occurs in the hours and days after gatherings, when we separate into smaller groups and snicker, judge and let loose the parts of our sinister souls for which we seek atonement during religious and other holidays.

Now that family gatherings have restarted in earnest, despite the COVID clouds still hovering over us, we have a chance to turn moments of discomfort into a collage of complaints.

While I’m sure there might be a few people who don’t practice the fine art of conducting post-gathering analysis about friends, family members and loved ones, I have yet to meet them.

We ought to break the process, lighthearted ideally though it may, into various categories.

Clothing: Wardrobe choices are often the subject of discussion. We sometimes marvel at how revealing or tight an outfit was or how casually someone dressed for a larger gathering.

Defensive guests: Sometimes, what people say, or hear, has nothing to do with a question they were asked or even a conversation in which they participated. While I was recently cleaning dishes, another guest walked in and told me everything he had contributed to the confab. His need to share his contribution, or to allay any guilt he might have felt, was revealing.

Conversation interrupters: While many families have long-winded storytellers, some gatherings include a conversation interrupter. They are the people for whom any dialog that doesn’t revolve around them or their opinions is unwelcome and unworthy. They interrupt other people’s stories to interject their views on a topic or, perhaps, on something completely unrelated to the discussion.

Exacerbaters: These are the people for whom conflict is nearly as delicious as the homemade apple pie or fruit cobbler that awaits after dinner. Sensing conflict in a marriage or between siblings, they will figure out how to help build any tension in the moment. When challenged for their role as instigators, they will frequently play the victim card, claiming that making people angry at each other or at them wasn’t their intention and that everyone doesn’t understand how they were really only trying to help and to resolve the conflict.

Welcome to Narnia guests: No party is complete without at least one person who needs to bring everyone into their perspective or their world. These people often see everything through one perspective, whether it’s about saving stray dogs, the challenges of having difficult neighbors, or the difficulty of finding good Thai food in their neighborhood. The discussion could be about the challenges educators faced during the pandemic and, they will say, “Oh yeah? Well, that reminds me of the challenges of finding good Thai food.”

The revisionist historians: Often, some, or even many, of the people in a room spent considerable time with each other. Stories have a way of evolving over time, either because they sound better one way or because the storyteller’s memory has altered some of the facts to suit a better narrative. No, you didn’t invent the yo-yo, no, you didn’t predict the year the Cubs would finally win the World Series, and, no, you didn’t always use the phrase “just do it” before Nike added it to their ad campaign.

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Pixabay photo

By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

When our children were young, we tried the Ferber method to encourage them to put themselves to sleep.

No, we didn’t abandon them in their room and return six hours later with a smile and a wink. We walked out of the room, told them to go to bed, and slowly extended the time before we returned.

It worked, although the complaints sometimes frayed our nerves to the point where we would argue about who drank the last of the milk, and I can’t even drink milk.

When the children got sick, all bets were off. Walking out of the room when they couldn’t breathe, when they had toxic sludge coming out of one or both ends, and when they had a fever was not an option for us, no matter how little sleep we’d had the night, week, or month before.

Once they recovered from their illness, however, we had to go back to the gradual Ferber method again, as they seemed to have forgotten that they might not need anything from us and that they should just close their eyes and go to sleep.

Parenting in the wake of the pandemic is a little like trying to figure out what role to play after the world has been sick for a few years and when we had to adapt whatever parenting rules we had established.

Do we tell them to “suck it up,” to “fend for themselves,” and to “tough it out,” or do we continue to offer support after they, and we, endured a new set of rules designed to keep us safe in the long term, but that caused all kinds of frustration in the shorter term?

Parenting always seems to have more questions than answers, but the number of questions and the frequency with which we ask them seems to have increased.

Indeed, even as our children have reached the age when we no longer have to strain our backs to make sure they don’t walk too close to the edge of a pool or to a rough surf, we still wonder what role, and how aggressively and consistently, we should play after the pandemic.

How many times have we wanted to agree with them in the last few years when they complained that “this isn’t fair?” Offering the reply, “who said life was fair,” didn’t seem appropriate, sympathetic or understanding. That response would only reinforce the reality that a year without graduation, proms, or downtime that didn’t involve a phone or a Monopoly board was definitely not fair.

Recently, I chatted with a parent in my neighborhood whom I haven’t seen in months. Within seconds, she shared her son’s recent tale of woe. Returning to the soccer field, he injured his leg badly enough that he’ll likely be out of action for soccer and several other sports for the next six months.

That, she said, is heartbreaking on top of all the time he missed on the field.

Amid all the concern for his physical well-being, she shared her worry about his mental health. She reached out to psychiatrist and psychologist friends, hoping to find someone with whom he might talk about yet another interruption in his plans to enjoy participating in a team sport.

To her dismay, she found that the mental health care system is as overburdened as the physical one was during the worst of the pandemic. Concerned about the context for her son’s life, she has dialed back her urge to encourage him to return to school on crutches, standing at the ready to bring him home whenever he feels physically and emotionally overwhelmed.

I completely understand that. At the same time, I wonder if and when we might deploy a safe Ferber-style approach after all the disruption of the last few years.

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Female Cowbird. Pixabay photo

By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

A huge fan of our avian neighbors, I have collected numerous anecdotes during my travels on Long Island and around the world. As we delve deeper into the spring, I’d like to share a few.

The brood parasite: Many years ago, OK, decades, I did some research on the brown-headed cowbird. This bird, whose scientific name is Molothrus ater, which means “black vagabond,” shares a lifestyle with the cuckoo. You see, the cowbird, which spends considerable time eating food near farms or settled lands, doesn’t build nests. It lays its eggs in the nests of other birds and contributes nothing to the parenting of its young.

When I was in college, I wondered how these birds knew they were cowbirds and didn’t form attachments to the numerous other species who unwittingly contribute to its success. Their hosts raise these aggressive young that sometimes outcompete their own chicks for food. Speaking with people who lived in Mammoth Lakes, California, where I performed my research, I met several people who were in their early 20s, who listened attentively to the story of my research. When I finished, one of them smiled and said, “Wow, what terrible parents. They must only live in California, right?”

The beak smackers: When I attended Gelinas Junior High School, I learned about the Galapagos Islands. I couldn’t wait to visit a place where sea lions barely budged when people walked near them. I finally traveled to these wonderful islands, made famous by Charles Darwin’s trip where he posited the theory of evolution. As I hiked with my family on a tour, our guide stopped and told us to listen. Smacking sounds, as if people were sword fighting with whiffle ball bats, came from just over a ridge. When we reached the top, we saw albatrosses engaged in extended beak smacking.

Once pairs of these white birds finished their ritualistic and individualized pattern, they started again. Closing my eyes, I could imagine the rhythm of several of these courtship routines becoming the percussion section of a song.

Seeing red: When I studied birds in college, I recalled hearing about the dominance hierarchies of the red-winged blackbird, which occupies marshy areas all around Long Island. With red stripes on their shoulders, these birds are also distinctive for their loud and extended squeaks. The size of the red color reflects the dominance of the birds. Without the bright red indicating the equivalent of a social rank, even the most dominant bird loses his status and preferred spot in a habitat.

Foul play: The black cormorants, which sit low in the water, are excellent divers. They are not, however, particularly well-suited for their watery lifestyle. Their feathers are not waterproof, the way a duck’s are. After they get sufficiently waterlogged, they stand on docks or pilings with their wings outstretched, as if they were holding their feathers on a drying line. They use the wind to dry themselves out. It seems especially cruel and maladaptive for a bird that lives in the water to endure extended periods of being waterlogged.

You want a coke with that? My family was enjoying a meal in Miami after a morning in the sun. Sitting outside, where we had an unobstructed view of the beach and where the wind provided welcome relief from the hot sun, we ordered burgers and fries. I picked up a French fry and lifted it near my head to make a point. Accustomed to human patterns, a seagull saw the opening, grabbed the fry without touching my hand, and flew off to consume his prize.

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METRO photo

By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

I’ve tried to dodge the question for years.

For some reason, it comes up despite an eagerness on my part to point to the sky and shout, “Look, it’s a flying turtle,” or to ask, “Wait, aren’t Derek Jeter, Halle Berry and Eva Mendes all sitting together over there?”

You see, I have a dairy allergy. When I first noticed over three decades ago that I couldn’t eat or drink milk products, the world wasn’t as prepared, accustomed and, most of all, accommodating toward allergies.

I’d go in a restaurant, even a fancy one, and tell the waiter or waitress that I was allergic to dairy. I’d get this dubious look like she thought she was on candid camera or that I wanted the fancy French chef to make me a Big Mac.

I tried to order quietly while everyone was looking at their menus or diving for the gold coins I’d thrown across the room as a distraction while I whispered about my allergy to a waitress, begging for a chance to order without facing the inevitable food inquiry.

Alas, more often than not, my distraction techniques and whispering rarely worked.

“I’m allergic to dairy,” I’d mumble.

“Say what?” she’d say.

The restaurant would go silent as if EF Hutton were telling people how to invest.

“I can’t eat anything made with milk, cheese, butter or cream,” I’d say.

“So, what do you want to eat? The chef can’t redo the entire kitchen just for you,” she’d reply, while snarling, blowing the bangs off her forehead and rolling her eyes.

Typically, I’d come up with something creative like a plate of lettuce, an unbuttered bagel, a hard-boiled egg or a Chinese meal. Asian restaurants rarely use milk or butter, which makes Chinese, Japanese and Thai food among my favorites.

Once I’d finally placed the order and was ready to engage in a non-food-related conversation, someone would look me in the eye and ask.

“So, what happens to you if you eat dairy?”

And there it is. I’m not sure what to say. Going into graphic detail forces me to relive unpleasant experiences.

Over the years, I’ve looked at my wife for help. She’s tried to point out the scar from the IV she got when she gave birth to our daughter, shared some exciting anecdote from work, or offered a story from her childhood.

The more we try to redirect the question, the more likely it is to persist.

“No, really, what happens? Would you die?” people have asked eagerly. Sometimes, their tone is so matter of fact that I wonder if they’d like popcorn, with plenty of butter, to watch the death by dairy event.

Do I carry an EpiPen? Would my throat close? Would I need immediate medical attention?

While the answer to all three questions is “No,” I prefer not to think about, and relive, the consequences of a few mouthfuls of key lime pie.

Describing the discomfort that starts in my mouth and continues all the way to my, well, other exit point, requires me to share unpleasant details.

I try to shorten the interaction by suggesting, in general terms, that I’m in intense digestive discomfort.

“How long does it last?” someone asks.

“Long enough that I haven’t had ice cream for over three decades.”

While the question is unpleasant, the modern reality is not. Waiters and waitresses often arrive at the table and ask about food allergies.

Then again, out of habit, some of them ask at the end of my order if I’d like cheese in my omelet or on my burger.

I smile, waiting for them to look me in the eye.

“Right, right,” they eventually grin. “No dairy. I knew that.”

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By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

We’ve only visited The Fly, a grassy area behind Audubon Park in New Orleans that sits along the edge of the Mississippi River, four times, and yet we can’t possibly travel to the Crescent City without stopping there.

A wide open space that draws students from nearby Tulane and Loyola universities, residents of all ages, screeching seagulls and supersized cormorants that look like genetically altered cousins of Long Island’s water foul, The Fly has hosted some of our most enjoyable visits to see our freshman son in college.

The first time we walked to The Fly, our son was in that miserable, confusing, bees-buzzing-around-his-overlong-hair state when he wasn’t sure where he wanted to attend college and when everything, particularly enthusiastic parents, was irritating.

We had to wait what seemed like forever in searing heat for a freight train with endless cars to cross in front of us to climb over a small hill and reach The Fly. The endless train took so long to pass at a snail’s pace that my son and I sat down on dry grass, while my wife took a few pictures. We tried to keep the moment light, even though our son felt the weight of college uncertainty on his broad shoulders.

When the gates finally went up and we crossed the tracks, the first thing I noticed was the relief the refreshing gusts of wind that came off the river provided.

As we approached the water, we passed young families sitting on blankets and eating picnic lunches, college students playing “never have I ever” games and birds lifting off and circling the shoreline of the river, using their bodies as kites in the swirling winds.

The open green space between the back of the zoo at Audubon Park and the river energized my son and me, calling to us to play.

As we inched closer to the pathway near the river, we stared into the active water, which looked as busy as a bustling city. The main current in the middle traveled one way, while swirling eddies circled near the shore.

Sitting on a sturdy wooden bench, we soaked in the scene and could see our son’s shoulders lower and his breathing slow. The water show helped allay any anxiety he had about class assignments, making friends, learning about a new place, or living far from home.

An ocean going cargo ship passed within 100 feet of us. These enormous ships, sometimes pulled by muscular tugboats, seemed impossibly close, acting like an outdoor theater with an oversized screen.

During several other visits to The Fly, we have delighted in the unexpected. Once, we brought a football and ran patterns in a heavy but warm rain while my wife watched comfortably from the car. Playing on an empty, soggy field with my son made me feel as if I were jogging through the fountain of youth.

While the Fly has become one of my favorite places to visit, I have increasingly come to see settings as much more than backdrops for life and action: they have become like characters, encouraging, inspiring, challenging and reviving us. Like the salty smell of West Meadow Beach, they can also give us the chance to travel through time in our minds, reminding us of earlier visits and the people who traveled with us through life to these locations.

Our son has visited The Fly several times over the last few months. He has taken short videos of the moving water, the frolicking birds, and that first wooden bench where we shared a respite from the college process. The videos he sends are a short visit with him and our friend The Fly.

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Pixabay photo

By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

It’s been a long time since I took a child to a playdate or to the first day of a kindergarten class. And yet, I felt as if I had gone through a time warp recently when my daughter, who is home for spring break, and I took our three-year-old dog Bear for his second visit to a dog run.

While I’m sure many dog owners are familiar with the process, I found the collection of dogs circling trees, bushes and owners fascinating and familiar.

When we arrived, several dogs played in groups of shifting sizes while their owners, like anxious parents hoping their children play well together, stood by, observing the action and preparing to intercede.

Dog owners looked back and forth at my daughter and me, trying to figure out which of the collection of pets straight of a Dr. Seuss book filled with colorful illustrations of dogs of all shapes and sizes was ours.

That process isn’t as obvious as the genetics of trying to match the faces of young children with the parents standing by, waiting for the bell to ring and a teacher to bring their children inside.

Like protective parents, many of the dog owners watched their pets carefully, not only to make sure they were behaving, but also to ensure that none of the other dogs was threatening them.

Some dog owners shared stories about their dogs, much as my children’s classmates had done over 15 years ago, talking about what their dogs like to do and how eager they are for their dogs to get out all their energy now, so they’ll sleep well. Just as it does for young children, a day of healthy activities means a good night’s sleep.

A medium-sized dog paused in a puddle, stomping in the squishy mud. Her owner raced over and barked at Roxy to “stop,” annoyed that her paws looked like they had brown booties.

Meanwhile, a giant dog with the name Zeus written on a horse collar lumbered from one group to another, his head held higher than other dogs who came up to his shoulder.

Bear shifted from one group to another, awed by the athletic prowess of two huge dogs that vaulted onto a picnic table. 

At one point, Bear trotted to the other extreme end of the park, almost out of sight. I whistled for him and, despite his tendency to ignore me at home, he immediately picked up his head and pitched his ears forward. I signaled for him to come back and, to my amazement, he jogged the length of the field, where my daughter and I pet him appreciatively.

While Bear played with the other canines, he also visited every pet owner, thrusting his head towards their knees and staring up at them with his best “I-know-you’re-a-dog-person-so-please-pet-me” face.

An aggressive dog barked and nipped at the others who had been playing peacefully. After the newcomer lunged at Bear three times, he trotted to the exit, glancing over his shoulder periodically to make sure we were coming. We obediently followed.

Once we were near our car, an unleashed dog raced around the lot, as his owner shouted for Oliver repeatedly to come back and to stay away from cars moving slowly enough to avoid loose dogs.

As we drove home, with our dog panting from the exertion in the back seat, I glanced at our daughter and appreciated the brief trip down memory lane when we brought her home from playing with her peers.

Our dog has no intention of trekking off to college, even if he’s eager to explore the world of our neighbors’ houses, where the grass sometimes seems greener.

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