CLOSE
D. None of the above

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Pixabay photo

By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

Welcome to the casino. Just by being alive today, you’ve all punched your ticket to the worldwide slot machine.

Now, the machines operate the way people expect, most of the time. They follow their programming, they make the loud noises as the three wheels inside of them spin and then show images on those three wheels.

The machine doesn’t cost anything to play. You don’t have to put in quarters or tokens or anything else. You just sit down and a machine starts spinning.

In fact, when you sit in one of our relatively unclean chairs, because we’re much more about playing the game than we are about cleanliness or safety, the process begins.

The chairs are close together, so you and your neighbor can compare notes on how you’re doing in this game, can share stories about your lives and can enjoy time out, away from the limitations of quarantine and all the other frustrations that you’ve had to endure for so long.

We do everything we can to discourage masks. We want you to be able to share the freedom that comes from seeing each other’s faces clearly.

And, if you should happen to need to use the bathroom, we don’t have any annoying signs about washing your hands. In fact, we don’t even recommend soap. What is the value of soap, after all? It’s probably some corporate scheme to boost profits somewhere.

We mean, come on, right? The cavemen didn’t have soap and they lived long enough to become fossils. That should be good enough for you, too, right? Before they died, they drew cool things on the wall, sharing stories that survived years after they did.

Now, we want to share a few details about our cool slot machines. You want to know a secret? We didn’t build these machines. We know, it’s hard to believe, but they just appeared one day, as if a stork or another kind of flying creature brought them. Well, not all of them. That’s the incredible thing. A few of them appeared and, after we started playing them, they copied themselves. The more we played them, the more they produced new copies.

Now, you might have heard that these machines can be bad for you. But, hey, so many other things are bad for you, too, and you still do them, right? You have a little too much to eat or drink now and then, and you maybe put a recycling bottle in the wrong trash can, but who pays attention to those things?

Anyway, so, these original machines built themselves the same way, most of the time. Each time a new machine appeared, they worked the same way, with images flying across the screen.

Every so often, when the machines made enough copies of themselves, they changed slightly. We’re not exactly sure why or how that happened, but it’s perfectly normal, we think.

The newest versions of these machines spin at a faster rate and also copy themselves more rapidly. One of them, which is now the most common type, has a big D on its side. That’s the dominant machine.

Actually, at this point, we’d kind of prefer people stop playing the game. You see, each time you play the game, not only does that D version copy itself, but our people are telling us that we run the risk of creating other types of the machine that might have worse features.

But, wait, how can you stop playing? What can keep you out of a casino that’s everywhere? Well, there’s a special thing you can get at any local drug store that someone puts in your arm. After you get it, you become almost invisible to the machine. That may be the best way to get away from these monsters.

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METRO photo

By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

One day, you wake up and your kids who called noodles “noonies” are getting ready for college.

No, not exactly. It’s a long journey filled with skinned knees, ripped tee shirts — don’t ask — eye rolling and muttering between clenched teeth. Still, here we are, as our kids prepare to move on from the educational minor leagues. Along the way, we went through numerous milestones. Please find below a few of the phases in our journey.

— Deer in the headlights. I’ve seen deer in my headlights. The only difference between them and us when we first brought our children home is that the deer’s eyes are open much wider. We almost instantly became sleep-deprived. Other than that, we had that frozen not-sure-where-to-move feeling, knowing we had to do something, but not exactly sure what or in what order to take care of those needs.

— Hating everyone. People meant well back in the days when our children were young and cried. Numerous people, who didn’t live with or even know our needy infants, offered unsolicited advice about what this scream or that scream meant. Strangers would tell us how our daughter’s cry meant she had gas, was hungry, needed her diaper changed, or was hot or cold. Yes, thanks, those are the options. Thanks for the help!

— Cooking the plastics. Yup, back in the early days, I was so sleep deprived that I put plastic bottles in a pot of boiling water to sterilize them and fell asleep. It wasn’t until I smelled the burning plastic that I realized how long I’d been out.

— Carrying everything: We couldn’t go four blocks without a diaper bag filled with everything, including the special toy each of them needed, diapers, wipes, ointment, sunscreen, bug spray, rain jackets, boots, and extra clothing.

— Straining our backs: Picking the kids up and playing with them was fun when they were under 20 pounds. When they reached 50 and above, holding them the entire length of a ski slope became impossible.

— Crazy sports parents: This phase lasted much longer than it should have. It was only when the kids reached late middle school that I appreciated the fresh air, the sparkling sunlight and the excitement of the moment. Exercise and making friends are the goal. Everything else, including winning, is gravy.

— Giving them space (aka, it’s not about us). As they reached adolescence, our children needed to make their own decisions. Tempting as it was to jump in and redirect them or even to kiss them before they left the car for middle school, we bit our tongues as often as we could, leaving us feeling lonely and nostalgic in our cars as they joined their friends.

— Beautiful naps: Giving them space allowed us to do what we wanted. After years of living our lives while monitoring and helping theirs, we had a chance to do exactly what we wanted, which started with restorative naps.

— Sending them into space. We aren’t putting them in a Jeff Bezos rocket ship or sending them to the International Space Station, but we are preparing to give them an opportunity to explore the world outside our house.

— Looking at the calendar differently. With both of them on the way to their futures, we can choose places to visit that didn’t interest them. We can visit these places when school is in session, which should mean lower costs for us.

— Telling other people how to take care of their kids: With our free time, we see parents struggling with young children. We, of course, know better. Or maybe not.

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Ashley Langford. Photo from SBU

By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

She hasn’t scored a point or dished out an assist in a college basketball game since 2009. That hasn’t stopped Ashley Langford, Stony Brook University’s first-year women’s basketball coach, from mixing it up with the players.

A point guard who graduated from Tulane University and who holds the school record for the most assists, scored over 1,000 points, and, despite being five feet, five inches tall, brought down 403 rebounds for 25th in school history, Langford plans to tap into her playing experience at Stony Brook.

“I’m a hands-on head coach,” said Langford, who most recently was associate head coach at James Madison University in Virginia. “I’m a demonstrator.”

Langford, who took over for Caroline McCombs this year when the former coach joined George Washington University, believes she can help a team that won back-to-back America East Championships by stepping onto the floor during practices and drills.

When she’s guarding them, she wants to “see them do a move,” she said. “At a certain point, they get too good” for her skills, which is when she pats herself on the back, especially after she sees her players exuding increased confidence.

Langford is pleased with the start of her time at Stony Brook, where she has felt welcomed and supported by Athletic Director Shawn Heilbron and President Maurie McInnis.

“This is a big reason why I chose to come here,” Langford said. “The administration is great and the president has been awesome.”

Langford appreciates how Heilbron knows the names of so many student-athletes, which is consistent with her approach to coaching.

Langford believes her players and the coach should have similar expectations.

“I need to be connected to my players, and I want them to be connected to me,” Langford said. “I want players to come into my office and talk. I want that relationship.”

Langford has been working within the limitations of National Collegiate Athletic Association rules during the summer. She hopes to use this time to build a rapport with her team and help them learn her terminology and the drills she runs.

“I want to give them a preview” about her and the program, Langford said.

In making the transition from playing to coaching, Langford said she has tried to improve and grow. She believes she and her team should constantly strive to improve.

Coaching is “less about basketball and more about how you connect with your players,” Langford said.

To be sure, that connection doesn’t mean she coddles the team. She strives to be honest without sugarcoating the message. 

“When they’re doing well, I’m going to tell them,” she said. “When we need to be better, I’m going to tell them that, too.”

Langford explained that basketball has changed considerably since her playing days, as players have more resources available to them. She sang the praises of Elizabeth Zanolli, assistant athletic director for Sports Medicine, who supports the basketball and other teams.

Players also have nutritionists, dietitians, and strength and conditioning support, which improve the overall health and endurance of the athletes.

On the court, the men’s and women’s games have increasingly emphasized the value of the three-point shot, which means that most of the points in a game come from in the paint close to the basket or outside the three-point line, where long-range shooters can rack up points quickly.

Langford doesn’t see much of a difference between the men’s and women’s games.

“I want players to pass, dribble and shoot,” she said. “It’s that simple.”

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0 393
Pixabay photo

By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

A few weeks ago, I wrote about a conversation I imagined having with an alien who I  envisioned landing in my backyard. Here’s how I figure a conversation between an alien who speaks the language of my dog and our beloved pet would go:

Alien: Tell me about those humans?

Dog: They talk to each other constantly.

Alien: Does the noise bother you?

Dog: It’s not particularly problematic, but it is hypocritical.

Alien: What do you mean?

Dog: When we’re in the backyard or out for a walk, they tell us to be quiet or something much meaner when we speak to other dogs. They don’t want us to bark with other dogs, and yet they talk nonstop like they have so much to say. 

Alien: What else is different about humans?

Dog: They never smell each other’s butts. By the way, do you mind if I hump your tentacle?

Alien: That’s fine. So, why is smelling each other’s butts important?

Dog: We get all kinds of information, about where the dog has been, what grass it’s eaten. Speaking of which, are you planning to feed me sometime soon? I’ve been making those cute eyes at you during our entire ride and you haven’t felt the need to toss me food.

Alien: So, what do humans do all day?

Dog: They seem to be slaves to some small object they hold. Every time it buzzes or beeps, they immediately look at it, as if they will get in trouble if they don’t. Sometimes, they say something, like “Oh my gosh, I forgot,” or “Oh no, you don’t,” and then they run somewhere. I think that object gives them directions.

Alien: Are they pleasant?

Dog: Sometimes. They seem incredibly happy when they scratch our bodies and we move our legs. Once in a while, I do it if I think one of them is having a tough day.

Alien: Do they seem intelligent?

Dog: Hard to say. They don’t understand the value of sleep. They spend hours each day with the things in their hands or staring at a flickering screen. At night, they look at another screen on the wall in their bedroom.

Alien: What’s your favorite game to play with them?

Dog: There’s a big difference between my favorite and their favorite game. They love to play something they call “fetch.” They can be pretty simple and easy to please. When they like something, they keep doing it.

Alien: And your favorite game?

Dog: I call it the “mud game.” When everyone is wearing something fancy, nice or white, I go into the backyard and find the darkest mud. I come in and jump on them or spread mud on the floor.

Alien: Any other observations?

Dog: Just as they start to bring compelling smells into a room, they spray or roll on the scent of flowers over their bodies. I tried to copy them by rolling in the flowers outside, but they didn’t like that.

Alien: What do they say to you?

Dog: They seem especially fond of the word “sit.” Whenever someone comes into the house and they don’t know what to say to the other person, they tell me to “sit” and the other person laughs and nods. 

Alien: Do you like humans?

Dog: Humans, in general, are fine. I am not all that fond of those people who make unhappy faces and say they are not a “dog person” but a “cat person.” Who could possibly find those hissing creatures more appealing than dogs?

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Pixabay photo

By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

I recently spoke with several scientists about work they were doing for the National Aeronautics and Space Administration, or NASA. In chatting with them, it became clear that researchers love acronyms the way my dog loves anyone willing to toss him a few morsels of food.

I was just thinking about how much time I’d save in my life if I could start my own set of acronyms, all designed to create word efficiency and to develop the equivalent of an insider’s club.

For starters, how about OKWAM? As in, this place is definitely OK without a mask because they don’t mind if you walk around with your face uncovered.Then, perhaps, there’s MAPH as in masks are preferred here. You don’t necessarily have to wear a mask, as you might on, say, a commercial airliner, but you would make the owners of the establishment happy and feel safer if you did.

In the world of politics, President Joe Biden (D) merits his own set of acronyms. If you think he’s bringing back civility, you might appreciate the chance to tell someone that you believe BMAC, for Biden makes America civil.

Now, of course, Biden, as with his predecessor, has numerous detractors. The New York Post is as eager to capture his daily verbal stumbles as the left-leaning papers and news organizations were to seize on former President Donald Trump’s (R) “covfefe” and other scrambled words. In that case, you might see Biden as a PINOE, as in a president in need of an editor, or a PINOC, as in a president in need of a compass.

Trump deserves his own set of acronyms. Borrowing from the redundant wording of the movie “Dodgeball: A True Underdog Story” (2004), supporters of the 45th president might say TIARA, as in Trump is always right, always.

Those who find the former president slightly off kilter, however, might believe he has a FANTS problem, as in facts are not Trump’s strength.

TOSID seems appropriate for both sides. That one stands for the other side is deceptive. That applies to Democrats and Republicans, each of whom sometimes reflexively suggest that the other side can’t possibly be honest because, if they were, the argument they’d like to make isn’t as powerful.

In the wonderful world of summer weather, how about HEFY, as in hot enough for you, or perhaps, CIRN, as in can’t it rain now?

Yankee fans are probably bracing for another mediocre, at best, half of the baseball year. Sure, we have talent, and we get periodic glimpses of adequacy, but we wind up looking like a fourth-place team. I have the feeling it’s NOY or not our year.

Parents have spent almost two years struggling with child care, education and their sanity amid a pandemic that has caused their children to become more like home-based barnacles than school-based students. To that end, and you can pronounce this one however you’d like, how about FCTKSIS, for fingers crossed to keep school in session?

Children, of course, couldn’t control whether their schools opened, which left them even more powerless to act out against the rules, tests or social pressures that follow them around like Pigpen’s dust storm from the Charlie Brown comics. They are now struggling with the need to EFTEW, or to emerge from the electronic world.

Many of us made normal hygiene habits optional. These days, we should consider recommending a SMIYL to our friends, as in a shower might improve your life.

While disconnecting during a phone call, turning off our video momentarily or covering our computer camera were options from home, we sometimes find ourselves stuck in conversations or interactions that aren’t working for us. We might need to beg someone to SAM or stop annoying me.

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Pixabay photo
Daniel Dunaief

This past week, I spent more time personally and professionally speaking with other people than I had in over a year.

I give myself mixed reviews. Two anecdotes capture the range of my experiences. During one meeting, my brain had its own mini dialog, even as I tried to stay focused on details about a story I was researching. Here’s a sample of that internal dialog:

Wait, why is he looking away? Should I not have had that salad earlier? Do I have something green in my teeth?

No, hold on, maybe it’s that you’re tired and your eyes are closing. Open your eyes wider to indicate that you’re paying attention. No. NO. NO! Too wide! Now, he’s wondering why you’re staring so intently at him.

Okay, he’s looking at you again. Oh, no, I have to scratch my face. What do I do? Ignore it. Yes, that’s working. No, it’s not. Now, my face itches even more. Come on face, suck it up. No, I have to scratch. Maybe I can coordinate the scratch with the moment when he looks away. Come on, look away!

Great, now he’s looking at me without blinking, like Jack Nicholson in “A Few Good Men.” Wait, I’m listening. Really, I am, but I’m a tad distracted. It’s not my fault. It’s my face’s fault. 

I’m focused. I have a good question ready, but I still need to scratch my face. Look away. LOOK a-WAY! It’s not working. Instead of scratching, I’m twitching. Now he’s staring at the part of my face that itches and twitches.

I’m going to lean on my hand and scratch subtly, while listening intently and making solid, but not scary eye contact.

Okay, so, maybe that was a slight exaggeration, but it was an imperfect and slightly distracted moment in the real world.

Later in the week, I had another opportunity to multitask. Just as I started walking across a courtyard to a meeting, it started pouring.

I walked quickly. Running didn’t seem like a great choice because panting, dripping and sweating is never a good look for me.

When I arrived, an incredibly supportive executive assistant asked me if I wanted a hot tea, coffee, towel or water. I said I’d be fine.

Once I got in the office, I immediately realized, dripping onto, into and around the chair of one of my favorite sources, that his air conditioning was among the strongest in the area. In addition to the cool air in the room, I felt a slight breeze, which made me feel as if each droplet of water clinging to me might soon turn to ice.

As I spoke to him, rocking slightly back and forth, putting my hands under my legs to keep them warm, I was well aware of how ridiculous I must have looked. At the same time, I appreciated the in-person nature of the experience, which wasn’t an option six months earlier.

I enjoyed how the multitasking necessary to stay on track was so much different than the challenges of Zoom, where my primary concerns were whether the background in the screen included messy clothing, whether I was looking at the right place on the screen, and whether my dog would decide to bark at the five-year-old learning to ride a bike in front of our house.

Venturing further out than I have in over a year from the turtle-shell life felt like stepping back into a familiar but altered role. Despite the momentary and awkward setbacks, it was a welcome return to a three-dimensional world.

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A scene from Broadway's 'Dear Evan Hanson'

By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

With my fingers crossed, I am excited about the return of shows on Broadway, which is scheduled to reopen in September.

Something magical happens when a curtain rises, taking an excited audience on a musical journey to other places and other times.

Decades ago, I attended a production of “The King and I.” While the famous Yule Brenner played the title role, I found the experience utterly meaningless.

I remember asking my mother what those small people were doing so far away from me, as we watched that production in the third balcony.

“Next time,” my mother said through gritted teeth to my father, “I’m getting the tickets.”

Sure enough, my parents took my brothers and me to “A Chorus Line.” The experience was as different as standing across the street, looking through the fog at a candy store and sitting at the counter, reading through a menu and enjoying the smell of warm waffles and ice cream and the sight of tantalizing delicacies akin to what I imagined Turkish delights from the Narnia series would taste like.

The live performance so completely captivated me that I left the auditorium humming some of the songs and hoping everything would work out for characters who came from broken homes and broken dreams. Each of the actors was taking his or her shot, hoping for approval, and a job, doing what he or she loved.

I have found numerous shows that have been as moving and as thrilling, including more modern performances, like “Dear Evan Hansen.”

The combination of sights and sounds, the emotional range from humor to tragedy and the riveting live voices that cause seats to vibrate and artwork to come alive provide a completely immersive artistic experience.

I don’t always love every moment in a show, and I don’t always understand what a director or actor is conveying, but that doesn’t stop me from trying or from appreciating the effort.

When I was in high school, I joined the pit orchestra of the musicals “The Wizard of Oz” and “West Side Story.” I far preferred the latter, with its more complicated and intricate music, although participating in each performance provided artistic highlights for my high school career.

On one of my first dates with my wife, we attended “A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum,” starring Nathan Lane. The show, which I had seen once or twice before, was a familiar pleasure, while Lane’s periodic breaking of character and hamming up the role tickled the audience, sharing the equivalent of a modern-day wink with an appreciative crowd.

After the show, I was thrilled to find that my wife shared my love and appreciation for the Great White Way. We repeated lines that amused us, commented on the sets, and appreciated the spectacular stage presence of an acting legend who, somehow, show after show, seemed to be completely in the moment.

As we continue to emerge from a pandemic in which we discussed books we’d read and Netflix shows we’d seen, I am eagerly looking forward to returning to the cushioned seats, the brightly-colored programs, the friendly ushers, and the hard-working cast members who inspire and elevate my life with their dedication, talent and hard work.

Who knows? This year, I might even go back to dressing up for the occasion, tying a tie, finding matching dark socks, and wearing dress shoes as the lights return to live performances, the orchestra holds up its instruments, and the actors take deep breaths, preparing to serenade those lucky enough to score tickets to a transformative ride.

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Photo from Pixabay

By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

Aliens are all the rage these days.

People are excited about the declassified documents that seem to suggest a technology that exceeds American understanding and know-how.

Of course, one possible explanation is that other people built them. With billions of intelligent humans scattered around the planet, it’s possible that we have fallen a few steps behind the most advanced surveillance technology of the world, making these sudden flying objects that disappear an enormous mystery, even as our fellow humans elsewhere are snickering.

While that only feeds into the advanced state of American paranoia, it doesn’t preclude the possibility that these technological mysteries are human-generated. Then again, maybe someone has built a time machine and is tooling around in a craft from future humans. If that’s the case, why didn’t our descendants do more to fix historical tragedies, global warming or other human errors?

Another tantalizing option exists: what if they are, indeed, alien? What if advanced creatures from another planet, galaxy, solar system, or celestial neighborhood, have come into our airspace to spy on us, learn our secrets and decide whether to stick their appendages out at us so we can meet them and become acquaintances or allies?

I was thinking about what I might say to an alien scout gathering information to decide whether to bring all manner of other creatures to our planet to share a drink, catch a baseball game, and argue the merits of communism versus capitalism.

I imagine a conversation might go something like this:

Alien: So, tell me about yourself?

Me: Well, uh, I’m human.

Alien: What does that mean?

Me: I guess it means I can talk to you and that, unlike other animals on this planet, I have imagined what this conversation might be like for much of my life.

Alien: How do you know other creatures didn’t imagine it?

Me: Maybe they did, but they seem kind of busy trying to avoid getting eaten.

Alien: That doesn’t mean they couldn’t imagine it.

Me: I suppose. So, where are you from?

Alien: Somewhere else.

Me: Wow, helpful. Can you tell me about yourself?

Alien: Yes, but I made a long trip and I’d like to hear about you, first. Do you mind?

Me: Now that you put it that way, I wouldn’t want to be considered intergalactically rude. So, what else can I tell you?

Alien: What’s the best and worst part of humanity?

Me: It’s hard to come up with one of each. Our ability to help each other is near the top of the list. Oh, as is our ability to imagine something, like traveling to the moon or Mars, and then making it happen. Music and art are also pretty amazing.

Alien: What about the worst?

Me: Destruction? Hatred? Violence? Excluding people? Preying on people’s weaknesses? Using our trauma to traumatize other people?

Alien: You sound complicated. Can we trust you?

Me: We don’t trust each other, so, going by that, I’d say, caveat emptor.

Alien: What does that mean?

Me: It means, “let the buyer beware.”

Alien: Hmm. So, who is this near your leg?

Me: That’s the family dog.

Alien barks at the dog. The dog barks back. The alien nods.

Alien: We’ve decided to go in a different direction.

Me: Wait, where are you taking my dog?

Alien: He’s not yours, and he’s chosen to join us.

Me: Can I come?

Alien laughs and flies off, buzzing close by a jet, the sound of the family pet laugh-barking in the skies.

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Pixabay photo

By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

You don’t have to look hard to see them alongside the road. They aren’t even always on the sharpest curves or the steepest hills.

There, along the median or over there, by the right side of the road, are the homemade crucifixes, the flowers, the stuffed animals and the personal effects of people who never made it wherever they were going, their lives ending on or near asphalt as other vehicles collided with theirs.

My family recently took a road trip, where we easily could have become another statistic, and our family or friends could have just as easily been visiting the spot where it ended for one, two, three or all four of us.

I was driving during a recent weekend, excited by the open road and eager to remove the family from the neighborhood patterns that have defined our lives for well over a year.

My wife navigated, checked her email, exchanged texts with friends, and regularly asked if I wanted her to drive, if I needed a drink, or if I was hungry.

Our son was napping behind me, his head tilted back and to the left. Our daughter was immersed in virtual interactions with her friends, head down, a Mona Lisa smile plastered on her face.

With my peripheral vision, I traced the flow of the taller and shorter trees that passed by, the familiarity of the Texas, Indiana, Ohio and California license plates on nearby cars and trucks, and the click, click, click of the road that churned beneath our wheels.

Up ahead, the driver of one of the thousands of SUVs that dot the American landscape hit his brakes. My wife instantly saw it and closed her eyes. Unlike me, she typically hits her brakes as soon as she sees the red lights at the back of the car in front of her.

I immediately take my foot off the accelerator, where it hovers over the brake. As we rapidly approached the car in front of us, I applied the brake with some force, coming to an almost complete stop just feet before reaching the bumper.

I exhaled in relief, while immediately hitting the hazards. I wanted the cars behind me to know I wasn’t merely touching my brakes, but that I, and all the other cars around me, were stopping.

For a moment, I chatted with my wife. I have no idea what she or I was saying, when I noticed a truck coming towards at an incredible rate of speed.

“Hold on! This isn’t good!” I shouted, waking my son and drawing my daughter away from her phone.

I reflexively tapped my accelerator and drove my car directly towards the nearly stopped SUV on my right side. The truck, meanwhile, dove into the thin shoulder.

As it flew by, the truck somehow missed us completely. The car next to me honked in frustration, as the driver, who must have moved to her right, glared. I wanted to tell her that a truck might have crushed our family if the driver and I hadn’t each made last second adjustments.

Her lane kept moving, and she likely didn’t give my sudden maneuver another thought. With my hands in a vice grip on the wheel and my breathing rapid, I stared at the truck in front of me. I wasn’t sure whether I would have liked to punch or hug the driver, who didn’t notice me slowing down, see my hazard lights or leave himself enough room to stop. At the same time, though, he — and it could have been a woman, because I never saw the driver — turned onto the small shoulder, finding just enough space to squeeze past me without destroying my car, my family or my life.

For the next several minutes, I struggled to drive, as the image of the speeding truck with nowhere to go in my rear view mirror replayed itself in my head.

“Are you okay? Do you need me to drive?” my wife asked anxiously.

My family and I were okay. We weren’t a part of a sad story that ended on an American highway. Skid marks left on the road weren’t a marker for the final seconds of our lives.

We are grateful for the combination of factors that turned a close call into a near miss. Perhaps this happened for a reason beyond giving us more opportunities to extend the journeys of our lives. Perhaps one of the purposes is to provide a warning to everyone else to remain vigilant, to brake early and to stay sharp and focused on the roads.

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Pixabay photo

By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

I’m not much of a planner. I put together professional plans, creating a schedule for stories I’d like to research and write, and I coordinate calls and meetings all week, but I don’t tend to go through the calendar to figure out when to visit socially with friends and family or to attend cultural events.

This summer, however, I’m incredibly grateful for the opportunity to look at the calendar and consider a wide range of activities that would have been difficult or impossible a year ago.

I’m delighted to plan to visit with my extended family. I haven’t seen my brothers in over 19 months. I have visited with them on the phone and zoom, but that’s not nearly the same thing as seeing them in person, throwing a ball with them, flying a kite off the beach or just sitting on the couch and having a free-flowing conversation.

I am also delighted to consider planning a trip to museums. On one of our first dates, my wife and I went to the Metropolitan Museum, where we wandered slowly through the exhibits, continuing to build on our relationship even as we studied the artifacts left behind by the generations that fell in love and married hundreds of years earlier. I recall wandering through those wide hallways close to a quarter of a century ago, listening to my wife’s stories and delighting in laughter that, even now, provides validation and meaning to each moment.

I am hoping to travel to Washington, D.C., this summer, to see the air and space museum. Each of the planes hovers overhead, and the space capsules from the early days of the NASA program are inspirational, giving me a chance to picture the world from a different vantage point, seeing the shimmering blue waters that cover the Earth.

I have watched planes fly overhead throughout the pandemic, but I haven’t ventured to the airport or onto a plane. I’m looking forward to the opportunity that flight provides to turn trips that would take over 10 hours into one- or two-hour flights.

Visiting family, friends and strangers in different areas, eating foods that are different and unfamiliar and experiencing life outside of the small circles in which we’ve restricted ourselves opens up the possibilities for the summer and beyond.

My son can prepare for the start of college and my daughter for a return to college with the hope that they can enjoy more of the academic, social, extracurricular and community service experiences that they imagined when they envisioned these years of growth, development and, hopefully, independence.

I spoke with a scientist recently who told me that the inspiration for a work he’d just completed came from a conversation he had during a conference a few years ago. He had been sitting in an auditorium, listening to a speech, when he and a stranger exchanged thoughts about the implications of the work. From that interaction, he started a new project that became a productive and central focus of his research efforts. As soon as conferences are back on the calendar, he hopes to return to the road, where such unexpected and unplanned conversations can trigger inspiration.

To be sure, I recognize that the realities of travel and planning don’t always dovetail with the hopes and expectations. I recently visited with our extended community at a social gathering, where I stood downwind of someone who wore so much cologne that I couldn’t taste the food I was eating.

I’m sure there’ll also be lines, traffic jams and literal and figurative turbulence as I leave our home cocoon. 

Still, this summer, I’ll be grateful for the opportunity to do so much, including and especially, the chance to plan.

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