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D. None of the above

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Pixabay photo

By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

I recently attended a wonderful 65th birthday celebration for Jeff that included his wife, children and their significant others and his 90-something father.

As I looked across the table at Jeff, who was sitting beneath large helium balloons with the number 65, I thought about how remarkably young he looked and about these kinds of celebrations for him throughout the years.

“What’s your first birthday memory?” I asked through the festive noises around us in a crowded Queens restaurant.

He recalled how his parents bought him a glow-in-the-dark skeleton costume, which he not only got to wear on his birthday with his friends, but also several days later on Halloween. 

The costume party-birthday party combination worked so well for him that he had similar such festivities over the years.

In fact, many years later, I attended one of his birthday parties in which he asked people to come dressed as one of his favorite things. Several people dressed as M&M’s, one came as a bottle of ketchup and I dressed as Yoda, reflecting his love for Star Wars.

As with any other day, birthday memories are not only festive and joyful, but can also involve the same kinds of feelings that reside in the brains of the characters in the Pixar movie “Inside Out.”

“I vividly remember steering a ferry, sitting on a fire truck and sounding the horn on a train in the same day!” said Michael, who was four during this momentous event.

Benji, meanwhile, ran around in costume outside for one of his early birthdays. Born in the spring, he wondered whether he, like Jeff, should have been born closer to Halloween.

Every year since she was three, Heidi enjoyed her mom’s home cooked noodles and meatballs with string beans, followed by a Friendly’s Jubilee Roll. She always wished for a Palomino horse and was happy to live later in life on a farm that boarded horses in Nissequogue.

Speaking of horses, Mandi, who is a twin, recalls having ponies come to her house during an early birthday. Her pony stopped to drink and her mother said, “You can lead a horse to water…” At the time, Mandi didn’t know what that meant.  Amid the pleasant parts of her birthday, she also recalled hating that she was born in July, which meant she couldn’t bring cupcakes to school.

Some people weren’t sure whether they remembered particular events around their birthdays or whether they had turned the pictures they have seen over the years and the stories they heard into a virtual, story-driven memory.

Rebecca recalled her fourth and fifth birthday confabs at a gymnastics studio, where she raced around over and through various gymnastics apparatuses.

Greg recalled having extensive birthday plans outdoors. Rain, however, prevented him from bringing everyone outside. He recalled pressing his nose against the screen door, looking out at the raindrops that altered his plans.

Larry recalled a first or second grade party when he had a cake shaped and decorated as a train engine. Before the group sang happy birthday, he plucked off the Lifesaver wheels. “Mom scolded me and I was upset during the whole party,” he remembered.

Julia shared how her brother tortured her at every birthday celebration, diminishing the enjoyment of the gathering.

Some people struggled to recall any of their earlier birthday parties.

Jill’s earliest birthday party memory was of her fifth grade celebration, when her mom made a pink and green alligator cake, reflecting the IZOD phase of life, and she went roller skating.

Sue, who works in a supermarket, remembered a part when she turned 12. Her parents invited her girlfriends over and they made soup for dinner and cake for dessert. The girls stayed up late, playing and chatting long into the evening.

Megan sat around the dining room table after dinner and had cake with her immediate family, who sang to her. At around seven, she got a host of presents and remembered receiving pens, which she really wanted, among the gifts.

Rachel, meanwhile, enjoyed two backyard barbecues each year: one with her friends and one with family and family friends.

Adam enjoyed a sports birthday party that his considerably older cousin and his cousin’s close friend ran at a local gym, where he wore a sports jersey and played basketball and deck hockey.

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MetroCreative Photo

By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

My wife and I have been voting early for several years. We like the convenience of early voting and find that we don’t tend to have to wait too long through the potential long lines of Election Day.

This election day, in particular, seemed problematic to us, as talk of unofficial and party-trained monitors, some of whom are watching over the elections themselves while others are observing the actions of other monitors, are poised to pollute the process.

We drove to the early site, looking carefully from the road at the number of cars in the parking lot and the length of the line out of the building.

If the line exceeded a certain visual marker, we would have returned at another day and time. When we were sure the queue was shorter than our maximum, we pulled into the parking lot, where we immediately found a spot.

Standing outside in an organized, relaxed and respectful crowd, we opened our phones to take a last look at the backgrounds of some of the down ballot candidates and at the experiences of would-be officials who were unaffiliated with either major party.

An elderly black woman appeared behind us, holding a tiny bijou cream-colored dog inside her coat.

“I hope that dog has an official ID,” I offered, as she smiled at me. “Which way is she leaning this year?”

The woman shared a broad and welcoming grin and said her dog’s papers were up to date.

As other voters joined the line or exited the polling place, several people came over and chatted with her about her dog.

“I miss my dog so much,” a man said, as he asked if he could pet her puppy.

She said he was welcome to visit.

“I lost my dog a few months after I lost my wife,” the man said, barely holding back tears.

The rest of us offered sympathetic glances at the man, who, despite sharing a palpable and visible grief, had come out to vote.

The line continued to build, with a 30-something man in scrubs standing next to the woman with the dog.

As others waited for their turn behind us, almost everyone grinned at the dog whose calm demeanor and charm could easily have won him votes if he were running for office.

Once inside the building, the election official with a name tag that read Sarah asked a woman to dispose of an almost empty drink container in the nearby restroom. Sarah promised to hold the woman’s spot, while the voter deposited her trash.

When my wife and I got to the front, Sarah asked the woman behind us if her dog was a service dog. The woman hesitated and then said she had a bad ankle and would have to carry the dog all the way back to the car.

Sarah apologized and also planned to hold her spot. I walked to the open check in desk, handed over my driver’s license and was asked to pronounce my last name. I was directed to another line, where I waited until another official took me to a voting machine.

The woman who returned her dog to her car was standing at a desk. She said she had considered describing her dog as a service animal, but thought better of lying.

Once at a voting machine, I started making my choices.

“Kamala Harris, Kamala Harris, Kamala Harris,” a Black girl who was about 10 years old shouted in a loud crescendo as her mother stood in the machine next to mine.

“So sorry,” her mother sighed, smiling at me, as she tried to contain her daughter’s excitement.

This young girl clearly didn’t share any of the fear, name calling, or anger of this election. She read a name she knew and was overflowing with unbridled enthusiasm.

As a parent, I wished I had told that woman to videotape her daughter’s delight, not only for the historic nature of the moment, but also to capture the sound of an enthralled, youthful voice.

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SBU's Elizabeth Watson, second from right, and her team coring.

By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

I used to liken the process to sitting on a highway divider where the speed limit was 70 miles per hour, holding a notebook and trying to read and record as many license plates as I could, sometimes in the pouring rain, under a bright sun, or in thick fog.

Working for a wire service, with its 24-hour news feed and its endless space for stories, was exhilarating and exhausting. My editors sometimes called me at 4 a.m. to tell me about an important story that was breaking and to encourage me to come into the office to get to work.

Oh, and every three months, when the companies I covered reported earnings, I’d arrive at work for at least a week around 7 in the morning, wait for the numbers to come out, and then spend the day reading the reports, talking with analysts and investors, getting on media conference calls with top executives and watching the stock price of the company rise and fall.

My job was to search through all that information to anticipate how people would react to piles of electronic news.

It was a great opportunity to write on deadline and to experience the absurd. One day, I helped write a few headlines and then had to use the bathroom. As I pushed the door open, my editor, following uncomfortably closely behind me, hovered.

“Can I help you?” I asked, as I stopped and turned around.

“Yeah, how long are you going to be in here?” he asked in his usual staccato, urgent tone.

“As long as it takes,” I shrugged.

“Yeah, well, there’s a headline out there and you need to send out the first version of the story within 15 minutes,” he reminded me, as if I didn’t know our rules.

“I know,” I said, “and I’m sure my system will comply with the requirements.”

Those were tough days at the office.

I’m sure everyone has difficult days at work, whether it’s a police officer dealing with someone who is in an altered, drug-induced state who may be a danger to himself or others, a teacher helping a high-stress student prepare for a standardized test, a truck driver taking a long detour around a crash site, or any of the many other possible strains or obstacles between the start of the day and the workload.

Recently, I spoke with several climate scientists who are a part of the Science on Stage free celebration at Stony Brook University’s Staller Center, which is coming up on October 28th at 4 p.m. (see related story in the Arts & Lifestyles section).

These scientists endure everything from creature discomforts, to resistance to the work they’re doing, to their own deadlines and the need to conduct their studies, publish their results and apply for funding.

Indeed, Elizabeth Watson, Associate Professor in the Department of Ecology & Evolution at Stony Brook University, shared several challenging moments.

“I’ve gotten stuck in the mud, covered with ticks, I’ve gotten Lyme, crawled across mudflats, pushed boats across mudflats, had to row our power boat back to the launch ramp more than once, [and] got forgotten about on a raft in a lagoon,” Watson wrote in an email.

Each of those challenges could have become the focal point of action for a biopic about a scientist.

Heather Lynch, Professor in the Department of Ecology & Evolution, explained that her research on penguins in Antarctica requires considerable advanced planning.

“The main challenge of working in Antarctica is really the uncertainty imposed by the weather and logistics,” she explained in an email. “It’s not enough to have Plan B, it’s more like Plan B through Plan F and then some. Covid and now avian flu have made an already difficult situation even harder.”

Still, at their most challenging moments, waiting for the weather to change, hoping someone will remember to pick them up, or living without creature comforts, these researchers find joy and derive satisfaction in doing valuable and constructive work.

“I’m like a bricklayer, adding more bricks to an enormous wall of knowledge that was started long before I started working on penguins and will continue to be built long after,” Lynch wrote.

Or, to put it another way, Watson wrote that “I love my job! No regrets.”

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METRO photo

By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

Back in the day when I covered Wall Street and spoke with power-broking bankers, mergers and acquisitions experts, and traders, I often chatted with people who had little to no time.

As often as I could, I’d catch someone in the midst of an exciting transaction. I pictured them standing at their desks, staring at papers, looking closely at the clock, and envisioning various life or community-altering transactions, such as multi-billion dollar mergers.

The information would be even better, of course, if other journalists hadn’t yet heard the news, giving me the chance to be first.

Some of my sources would share juicy tidbits, about a company, a strategic move, or a new hire. The cadence of their voice was often quick and clipped and the tone was close to a conspiratorial whisper, with the volume inversely proportional to the importance of the developing story.

They would often be eager to get off the phone so they could continue to rule the world, to collect multi-million dollar fees and to prepare to help other companies keep up with the fast-merging world by moving other pieces on the financial chess board.

A few seconds after sharing the final details, they would invariably use a two word signal that meant that the conversation, whether I liked it or not, was ending.

“Gotta hop!” they’d say. It was a universally understood code for, “I’m not hanging up on you, per se, but those are the last sounds you’ll hear from me on this call.”

During busy days on Wall Street, I’d picture investment bankers in expensive suits, hopping on one foot from building to building, keeping one leg in the air as they frantically finalized details and collected signatures.

Once they reached their destination, I imagined them putting the non-hopping leg down comfortably on the ground, while massaging the one that propelled them around the lower part of Manhattan.

Wall Street hasn’t cornered the market on signals that a conversation is coming to a close.

People in the Main Street world say they “gotta run.”

Sometimes, out of politeness, someone will indicate that he or she has another important call coming in that’s related to the topic at hand.

In more personal and familiar settings, my friends and family have various codes that suggest they are preparing to end a conversation.

An audible sigh is usually the equivalent of, “okay, let’s wrap things up here.”

Then, there’s the long, slow version of “alright,” which suggests that, fun as this conversation might have been, it’s time to end the call.

I appreciate the moment when people appear to want to be sensitive to me when they’re ready to disengage. That typically includes some version of, “I’m gonna let you get back to work or whatever it is you’re doing” when, more often than not, they have to return to something.

Of course, I have been on the other side of this disengagement effort, when someone who is on a long drive is not only eager for company but is also prepared to share, stream-of-consciousness style, everything they see and comment on the driving skills of everyone around them.

“What is that red car thinking?” they’ll ask. “Did you see that?”

“No, you see, the way the phone works, I can only hear your voice. I’m not looking through a body worn camera at the road ahead of you, but I’m sure the red car did something stupid and it’s great that you’re such a skilled defensive driver.”

I sometimes try to wrap up these calls with something like, “well, it’s been nice chatting with you.”

“Yes,” they’ll reply. “It’s nice chatting with you, too. So, what do you think of the presidential election?”

“Oh, um, I think it’s a good idea every four years or so. More often than that would become too hectic and stressful for the country.”

“No, I mean, what are your top 15 issues for the election this year.”

“I’d love to share them with you, but I have to hop and I want to give you a chance to get back to driving and someone is waiting to take a run with me, so, I’m gonna go.”

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Pixabay photo

By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

My Aunt Maxine had Down syndrome, which means she was mentally disabled.

In so many ways, Maxine and her life defied expectations and labels.

When Maxine was born, doctors told my grandparents that she wouldn’t likely live long, so they should consider putting her in an institution.

My grandparents couldn’t imagine being away from their daughter. They took Maxine home to the Upper East Side of Manhattan, where they raised and educated her.

As she grew up, Maxine was on the shorter side, at under five feet tall, and carried the youthful, round face of Down syndrome throughout her life.

She also had facial hair that my grandmother, mother and caregivers regularly trimmed.

My aunt lacked any self-consciousness about who she was, what she was, and how she related to the world. She figured everyone was as ready to love her and interact with her as she was with them.

More often than not, she smiled, offering an energetic and enthusiastic nod whenever anyone made eye contact. Plenty of people avoided looking at her in part because she was different and, in part, because she lived in New York and the rules of sidewalk engagement limited eye contact.

When people didn’t notice or engage with her, she kept walking, singing, talking to herself, chatting with her parents or the rest of us, or whistling, which she could do by inhaling and exhaling.

She lived at a higher decibel level. Her whisper was even louder than her normal speaking voice.

“What?” she’d whisper so loudly that it could be heard in the back row of a movie theater. “You want me to be quiet? Is that what you’re telling me?”

“Yes, shhhh.”

“Don’t shush me!” she’d say, her husky whisper, like her husky voice, becoming louder and indignant.

“Sorry, Macky,” I’d say. “People are trying to watch the movie. Can you watch it, too?”

“Oh, yes, yes, yes,” she’d say, nodding vigorously. “I’ll be quiet. I will. I’ll be quiet. If that’s what you want, I can be quiet. Sure, suuuuure!”

She was spectacularly funny and knew introductions were an opportunity for comedy.

“Who is this young lady?” she’d ask anyone who walked in the door in our house. The person could be anywhere from six to 96 and she’d ask the same thing.

“How old are you?” she’d ask.

No matter the answer, she’d suggest the person was a “lovely” young lady.

“What’s your name?” she’d ask.

When the person said her name, she’d say “what” several times and then ask the person to spell it. When she slowed our guest down repeatedly and asked her to say it again, the guest would shout.

“Hey, what are you yelling for? I can hear you. Not so loud. You’re hurting my ears.”

She’d squint and a smile would fill her face as she’d scan the room, knowing the old routine had hit the mark.

More than anything else, though, Maxine was compassionate, emotionally connected, loving and supportive.

She would sing the Star Spangled Banner when she listened to Robert Merrill on the radio before a Yankees game.

“It’s so beautiful,” she’d say, as she blew her nose and wiped her eyes.

I suspect many other Americans have an aunt, sibling, distant relative, friend or neighbor for whom labels mean even less than the totality of their lives, the winsome nature of their personality, and the triumphs that define their days.

Hearing anyone use the term “disabled” as a take down misses the point, particularly for those who seek to be the country’s leader.

Maxine required but also taught a level of patience. In exchange, our family and friends appreciated her joy of life and basked in her unconditioned positive regard. She wouldn’t have resented or hated others, wouldn’t have insulted individuals or a group and would have forgiven anyone who made a mistake.

Perhaps some day, those who use words like “mental disability” as a way to dismiss others or to cast others aside will think of the Maxines of the world. We can learn so much from others whose lives are different from ours and who aren’t trying to use words to project an image, to cut others down, or to suggest that someone is limited.

I can picture Maxine sitting in a chair next to me, tilting her head and looking at me from the side.

“You’re such a silly goose,” she’d laugh.

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Pixabay photo

By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

I’m getting messages every day and, often, several times a day. I must be really important.

As with snail mail, those messages could be delivering something extraordinary.

“We are writing to inform you that you’ve won a Pulitzer Prize, despite the fact that you haven’t entered anything and we haven’t yet created an extraordinarily average category.”

Or, perhaps, “we wanted to let you know that your cells are healthier than they’ve ever been and that you should keep up the good work. We’d like to study you to learn how your body is performing better than we’d expect for someone half your age.”

Then, of course, there are the realistic possibilities.

“Hey, want to go to dinner with us this weekend?”

That’s a nice message to receive from a friend or family member.

My son believes brevity is the soul of wit when it comes to messages so he’ll just write “Judge!!!!” or “Soto!!!!” or some combination of Yankee players who have performed well that day.

The most frequent messages I’m receiving are the ones from would-be political leaders, their pals, and other prominent supporters who not only want my vote, but also want me to contribute money.

I’d like to think these messages, with my name at the top, were written personally by these important people, who took the time out of their day to reach out to me.

“You know who I haven’t written to recently? Daniel Dunaief. I’ll just give him a holler to gauge his thoughts on one of the more important races.”

But, no, I know they’re not personal missives, just as I know Siri isn’t graciously saying “You’re welcome” even though she’s programmed to show appreciation in her chipper voice when I thank her.

Still, these messages have morphed from a nuisance into something else. In the frenzy and excitement of consequential races, these communiques are filled with fear and hope, often in that order. In a few short sentences, they tell me what’s at stake, what role I can play, and how these leaders will spend my money wisely.

Wouldn’t that be nice? If we donated to a campaign, wouldn’t it be great to see how our money, specifically, helped someone, as in, “this yard sign made possible by your moderately generous donation.”

If you’ve ever watched the show “Seinfeld,” George Costanza, played by Jason Alexander, suggests that he grows on people, the way ad jingles do. He is like an advertisement for Mennen deodorant. At first, you can’t stand the “byyyy Mennen” sound, but you find yourself singing it in the shower or humming it in the car.

Maybe, in some way, this unprecedented barrage of seemingly personal text messages has become like those jingles.

To be honest, I don’t read them carefully. I do, however, appreciate the earnestness with which someone sends them and I recognize that something consequential is about to happen.

Maybe it’s a bit like the December holidays. The anticipation of November 5th is exciting, even if the event itself might be lacking.

The reality of the election feels more like a gift certificate to a restaurant that serves a combination of my least favorite foods, all deep fried in a type of grease that triggers an allergic response. The election itself, as I see it, will likely have echoes from 2020, with lawyers and politicians exerting themselves, insisting that their candidate won for days or weeks after Nov. 5th.

An early riser, I grin when the message arrives an hour or so after I’ve gotten up and the person with the morning message apologizes for writing so early.

Really? Because you’re not actually sending the message and the machine that blasts them could pick any time in the day to release this particular text.

With all the money flowing into these campaigns, I wonder if the country invested all the cash both sides collected and put it in a certificate of deposit or a Treasury Bill and created scholarships, what kind of opportunities could we offer future students who one day might want to run for office.

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Pixabay photo

By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

I hadn’t been to Los Angeles in over 30 years. On our trip last week, I traveled with my wife, worked remotely, visited with our nephew, and purchased tickets to attend my first home Dodgers game.

During a visit that only lasted a few days, my wife and I stayed on Eastern Standard Time, which meant we were awake between 5:30 and 6:30 a.m. local time and were at work by 7 a.m..

My wife walked across a street to her office and I sat at a desk on the 17th floor of a hotel, laptop in front of me with my cell phone at the ready.

At around 7:30 a.m. on Thursday, I felt as if the desk in front of me were shaking.

At first, I figured it had to be some neurological quirk. After all, the older I get, the more inexplicable my sometimes random body signals are to me.

When the desk shook a second time, I made an announcement to the empty room.

“That’s an earthquake!” I declared, as if naming it and knowing what it was gave me some small measure of control. I walked around in circles and wondered what I should grab, where I should go, and what I should do.

I knew my wife was in meetings that morning, but called her immediately anyway.

She picked up in that hushed tone she uses when she’s on a phone or a zoom call.

“What’s happening?” she whispered.

“Did you feel the earthquake?” I asked. “What are you doing about it over there?”

“Earthquake? What earthquake? No,” she said, as she quickly typed into her computer.

Sure enough, within seconds of the quake, she had found something online confirming the event.

“What do you want to do?” she asked. 

I was staring out the window, which probably isn’t the right place to go, and watched people casually walking along the sidewalk, cars navigating through crowded streets and birds flying between the buildings.

“I’m going to call the lobby,” I said. I told her I’d get back to her immediately if there was anything we should do.

“Hi,” I stammered, “is this the front desk?”

“Yes,” the woman said. “How can I help you?”

“I’m on the 17th floor and I just felt an earthquake,” I announced.

Silence. I suspect the woman in the lobby was thinking something along the lines of, “You’re not from around these parts, are you?”

“What should I do?” I asked.

“Oh,” she sighed. “Well, if you’re worried or if things are falling from the ceiling, you can take shelter.”

“Shelter? Where? What should I do?”

“You can go under your desk or wait in a door frame. We also have a communication system on every floor and we can let you know if you need to evacuate.”

“So, what do I do?” I asked again.

“Whatever makes you comfortable,” she sighed. “Can I help you with anything else?”

“No,” I said, hanging up the phone. I grabbed my wallet, put on my shoes, and made sure I had everything I might need. I stood in the middle of the room in earthquake sensing mode. I had become a human seismometer, with my arms out, my feet spread apart and my palms pointing down to sense any vibrations.

I kept checking online, where I read coverage of an earthquake that didn’t seem to have caused any damage.

My wife and I traded texts and decided to continue working.

Later that day, we discussed the quake with friends and strangers, triggering all kinds of stories about earlier quakes and the ones people felt at different times.

I’m sure people in New York don’t hear honking taxis, people in the southeastern United States barely register screeching cicadas, and people in Phoenix somehow adjust to the searing heat.

I don’t think I’ll ever be enough of a Californian or a would-be Californian not to worry about the Earth moving under my feet.

Oh, and I did get to the Dodgers game the night before. The stadium was magnificent, the sushi was remarkably good, and the fans were delighted by the other-worldly performance of Shohei Ohtani, who crushed a home run and stole a base. 

The explosive sounds of a thrilled crowd of close to 50,000, the excitement of people jumping out of their seats, and the celebratory flashing lights were far more familiar than the shaking desk I felt the next morning.

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0 481
METRO photo

By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

This is not so much a shaggy dog story, as a smelly dog story.

I recently brought my dog to a boarding facility for a long weekend. I feel less dog owner guilt that comes from taking him away from home, the cats he barely tolerates, the squirrels he chases, and the bed that serves as a place to sleep, a chew toy and more, because he seems so happy to race through the door to visit with his friends at the facility.

I suspect he’s much more excited to see the people who work there than the other dogs, although he gets along with every dog except the one on the block who attacked him in our driveway when he got away from his owner a few years ago.

Our dog was fine, thanks, but my wife and I try to avoid that aggressive dog whenever we walk our powder puff up and down the block. Sure, our dog now barks angrily when he sees that other dog and even seems to have convinced our neighbor’s dog to snarl and bark in sympathy.

Anyway, I left our dog for the weekend knowing he was in good hands.

When I returned from our trip, I reflexively opened the door to our house slowly, knowing that he often naps against the door. When the door didn’t present any resistance, I also looked down and listened for the tap, tap, tap of his nails across the wood floor.

I knew, of course, that I hadn’t picked him up and that no such tail wagging greeting was coming my way.

At the boarding house, I exchanged banter with the friendly tattooed young man who is a boarding house fixture. I tried to suppress a smile as I waited expectantly for my furry friend.

When he came through the door, he was as happy to go home as he was to visit. He threw his butt and tail into my knees and looked back at me as I pet him.

Mud and moisture in and of themselves don’t necessarily have a foul odor. And yet, somehow, stuck to a furry, matted dog, the scent was overwhelming.

“Hi, puppy!” I shouted repeatedly as I breathed out of my mouth.

When I got him in the car, the stench was so overwhelming that I had to open the windows.

I had far too much work to do to bathe him immediately and was glad my wife wasn’t home to endure the stench. The dog wandered in and out of my home office several times, which made it hard to finish sentences, much less to breathe.

I considered locking him out of the room, but that seemed unfair, especially after we’d been apart for a few days.

Finally, after I finished my work around 9:30 p.m., I climbed into bed, ready to relax and prepare for sleep. Happy to be home, the dog was sleeping on the floor at the foot of the bed.

I couldn’t possibly sleep with a foul odor that seemed to get stronger by the second. The scent was so powerful that someone might one day want to consider using it as a smelling salt.

Like “Harry the Dirty Dog” and many others, our dog hates to bathe. And yet, he seemed perfectly happy to head into the bathroom and even to get into the shower. He has, however, figured out how to push open the shower door, which means that he gets covered in water and shampoo and then wanders into the bathroom, shaking sudsy water all over the floor, wall and counter top.

I gave him such a thorough cleaning that he shined in the bathroom light. During the vigorous rub down drying, he moaned.

After his bath, he raced across the house and into the corner where he gets his post bath treat.

Once I settled into bed, I looked for my now sweet-smelling puppy. He and his shiny coat were, of course, in the next room because, after all, what’s the fun of sleeping near me when he smells like flowers and not smelly dog?

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Fire departments from Wading River to Mount Sinai came to the 9/11 Community Memorial in Shoreham Sept. 11, 2019 to commemorate that fateful day. Photo by Kyle Barr

By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

September 11th is not just another day.

The country, and the world, stood still for hours, horrified and stunned by the mass murder committed by terrorists in Manhattan, Washington DC and in a field in Western Pennsylvania.

We can focus on the bravery of the first responders that day, on the remarkable effort by the passengers aboard Flight 93 to retake the plane, the loss of 2,977 people, and the passage of time since that horrible day.

We can also consider the incredible generosity and sensitivity of the country in the days, weeks and months afterwards. I know that didn’t apply to everyone and I remember how taxi drivers from mostly Muslim countries put bumper stickers on their cars indicating they were proud Americans. I also recall the unfair and horrific questioning of people who looked different or who might have originally come from Saudi Arabia or any neighboring countries.

Still, in the wake of a day that also lives in infamy, people gave of themselves and their time.

My family, which included our then three-month old daughter and my wife, walked to an upper east side fire station that lost several members when the World Trade Center collapsed.

There, we saw other people in our community who were bringing toys, pies, gifts and money to the department. The members of the fire station, whom we thanked, forced appreciative smiles on their faces and, more often than not, comforted many community members who choked out heartfelt words of thanks to the station’s survivors.

Outside the station, a car from one of those killed that day was barely visible under an enormous collection of flowers.

Prior to 9/11, I had spent considerable time writing about banks and financial services companies. I had a particular and lasting connection with several members of the boutique firm Keefe, Bruyette & Woods.

KBW provided research and investment banking services for a range of banks. In the months after the attack and the loss of lives, banks made sure to include KBW on investment banking deals, trying to help the survivors and the firm stay in business.

On Long Island, a range of companies donated construction materials to create lasting memorials to the people lost on that day, while offering families a place to go to reflect on the people they were fortunate enough to know.

The frenetic city that never sleeps entered a grieving cycle in which people implicitly knew the rules. A collection of cars passing by with their lights on behind a hearse required people always in a hurry to make way.

Despite the need to do things yesterday, to get somewhere faster than everyone else and to beat people’s own records in traveling from one place to another, people stood by, slowed down and made supportive eye contact with those who were putting up pictures of lost loved ones.

As we drove along the roads around New York City, we saw the efficient removal of debris from the World Trade Center site, with twisted metal and concrete sitting on passing flat bed trucks. Cars made room on highways for these huge trucks and turned on their lights in support and sympathy.

In a more insular way, many of us checked on our friends and family, setting aside ongoing familial disagreements.

I remember watching the video of President George W. Bush (41), who had lost the popular vote in 2000 to Al Gore but had won the election on the strength of the final recount in Florida. He was sitting in a classroom when the secret service whispered in his ear about the attacks. He seemed to take a long time to process what he heard.

Yes, people wondered where he went and what was happening with the center of government power and yes, some criticized him even as they flocked to the Churchillian resolve of Mayor Rudy Giuliani, who somehow symbolized the combination of pain and determination in the days after the attack.

People wanted to help each other, donating, volunteering and coalescing around the notion of a country in need of healing and recovery.

Many of the most helpful and supportive moments reflected the strength of a unified nation with a readiness to set aside political squabbles to defend the country. In our darkest moment, we gave flowers, food, support and respect.

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METRO photo

By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

I’m a good person. Really, I am.

What’s my proof? I don’t drink single use plastic bottles, which are bad for the environment. 

I love the environment. I’m going to go hug a tree. Not that one, because it’s kind of prickly and it makes my skin itch. Not that one either, because it’s too wide and my arms are too short. The one over there doesn’t work either, because it’s too far in the woods and I might get poison ivy.

You know what? I’m not going to hug a tree literally, but I’m going to do it figuratively.

Wait, what’s that you’re holding? It’s a picture of me drinking out of a single use water bottle? That must have been taken a long time ago.

No? You have a date on it and it says it was taken in the last few months. Oh, well, I was helping someone and she needed a drink and I didn’t want her to feel like she was drinking alone, but it certainly wasn’t alcohol and I didn’t swallow the water because it was too hot.

You want to know who I was helping? That’s none of your business. Also, I don’t want anyone else to have to answer these kinds of questions, so to protect her privacy, I’m not going to tell you.

I don’t care whether you believe me. Okay, well, maybe I care a little. You’re right, you’re right, I wasn’t helping anyone, but that picture of me holding a water bottle? That’s not actually me. That’s someone else and I have 10 people who can confirm that I wasn’t drinking that water on that day, even though I don’t know what day it was and that shirt looks like one of the ones I wear all the time.

Other people have that kind of shirt, too. Yeah, I know it might be unlikely that someone would have the exact same soy sauce stain in the same place, but it’s still possible. 

So, you get my point, right, about being a good person. Maybe the water bottle wasn’t a great example, but I used to coach sports and I won a bunch of championships.

I know I said that the championships weren’t about me and I didn’t win anything. But that was then. Today? I’m taking a little credit.

What did I do? Well, I gave my players advice. Yes, I know some of them ignored me, while others got their own coaches and played well despite my advice.

Still, I won those championships. Well, I mean, I didn’t do it alone, but I was the leader and you can be sure that the team wouldn’t have won without me.

How can you be sure? Well, for starters, you can’t not be sure, and that should be good enough.

So, we agree, right? I’m a good person. No? What’s it going to take?

Oh, you want me to hold the door open for you? Yeah, I would but the air conditioning might get out. You see? I don’t want to waste energy. Oh, I know it’s not a waste of energy for me to help, but I don’t want to waste the energy it would take to cool the hot air I’m letting in. That’s even better than that bottle example.

So, to conclude, I’m a good person because I’m sure, deep down inside, beneath all the complicated layers that undoubtedly make me interesting mostly to myself, I care about things, people and stuff.

Sure, I might not do as much about as I could or should and yes, I have done the opposite of what that good deepness might suggest, but I know I’m a good person and I never lie.

Except that one. That was a lie, but that’s the lie that proves the truth. Right? No, I’m not running for office. Lots of other people would do a better job or even an adequate job, which would also be better. I’m just letting you and everyone else know that, basically, and with no hidden agenda beyond, maybe hoping for a few giggles, that I am a pretty good person who might one day, turn out to be slightly better than I am now.

After all, I’m just a man, standing in front of a crowd, asking them not to dismiss him totally. Is that too much to ask from someone whose goodness may, one day, surprise us all and come out?

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