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My son and I love the odometer. He probably appreciates it because I talk about it so often and focus on repeating numbers, patterns in the numbers or milestones.

We are approaching another landmark as our odometer edges upward from a volleyball practice, to a concert, to a visit with friends in upstate New York, to a trip to Bronx Zoo or a ride to the airport — 100,000 miles.

Where will we be when we hit that magic mark? Chances are we’ll be close to home, perhaps on our way to or from school, to the train station or to a restaurant to celebrate another birthday.

Those repeating numbers, the 99,488 or the 99,699, may bring back horrible memories of childhood, when we had to come up with a formula to describe the nth term in a sequence. The numbers also may be reminders of when we need to change the oil, rotate the tires, check the brakes or give the car the equivalent of a well visit to the doctor.

Our country has spent decades shortening the distance between two points by car. Along the way, we eat in them, change the radio station, pull off the road for a nap or park near a favorite place to commune with nature from our moving couch.

All that time in the car is what made McDonald’s possible, giving people who travel over great distances the reliability and predictability of the same meal regardless of the state.

We throw ourselves and all manner of accoutrements into our cars, including baseball bags, suitcases, or — with my father — holiday presents. Then we pile ourselves into the seats, buckle ourselves in and hope for an open road along the 3,000 miles from New York to California.

We don’t often think about each of the miles, because we’d clog our minds with useless and forgettable information, particularly during those times when a mile becomes a measure of an interminable length of time on a stopped Long Island Expressway.

Then there are those miles when we feel as if the road disappeared below us and we are floating home, singing a song that makes the whole family laugh, especially when we share voices that are off-key, or celebrating a triumphant play or an enthralling concert. It’s why road trip movies, even poor ones, are so common.

These travel experiences offer a physical journey to match an emotional, spiritual or personal quest, giving us a chance to wake up to an ocean and go to sleep under the shadow of a mountain. Even when we no longer want to contemplate literary devices, we may see symbols in our travels that are hard to ignore, such as the dawn of a new day, soaring birds taking flight together, a fork in the road or a lightning bolt crashing down in the distance.

While the odometer doesn’t take pictures, have Instagram or Facebook accounts, and doesn’t store information in the cloud, it does give us a moment to reflect on where we’ve been and who has shared the ride. When the odometer was still in the double digits, we looked at the backs of our small children’s heads at rear-facing car seats. As the numbers on the car, and our children’s ages and heights increased, we heard their voices drop as they described a movie they watched with friends, a visit with a boyfriend or girlfriend, or a project they planned to complete as soon as they returned home.

I’m hoping my family is in the car together when the odometer breaks into six figures, because it seems fitting to share that milestone since the four of us journeyed through those miles of life together to get there.

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Fake news is in the spotlight. Websites, blogs and social media are populated with it and even print can be. The goal of its perpetrators is to misinform and to destroy readers’ trust in what they read. This calls into question the real work of traditional journalists doing their jobs.  Disinformation campaigns make all news suspect: What’s real and what’s fake? How can a free press properly be the watchdog of the people, the fourth estate of our democracy, if readers can’t believe what they read?

In an effort to sort out the real from the fake, especially in advance of key European elections in Germany, Holland and France, the European Union had created an 10-member team called East StratCom. These overworked diplomats, journalists and bureaucrats pore through hundreds of stories a day on Facebook and Twitter, according to The New York Times, attempting to sort out truth from fiction. Of course, they are only partially successful. The load is overwhelming. But perhaps they do serve to make readers pause for a moment to consider and check if they read something surprising.

The subject of fake news is deeply concerning to those of us in the news business. Please be assured, as I have noted in this column before, that our papers have no fake news. Mistakes? Of course. Corrections as soon as we know?  You bet. We at Times Beacon Record News Media have no hidden agenda and no dark side. Our only mission is to communicate with you the unbiased news in our communities.

Because a little humor leavens the task, I am including some sly old saws culled from the internet and sent me by a friend. I hope they give you a chuckle amid the serious business of reporting the news.

You Are What You Read (or, perhaps, it should be We Read What We Are).

1. The Wall Street Journal is read by the people who run the country.

2. The Washington Post is read by people who think they run the country.

3. The New York Times is read by people who think they should run the country, and who are very good at crossword puzzles.

4. USA Today is read by people who think they ought to run the country but don’t really understand The New York Times. They do, however, like their statistics shown in pie charts.

5. The Los Angeles Times is read by people who wouldn’t mind running the country, if they could find the time — and if they didn’t have to leave Southern California to do it.

6. The Boston Globe is read by people whose parents and grandparents used to run the country.

7. The New York Daily News is read by people who aren’t too sure who’s running the country and don’t really care as long as they can get a seat on the train.

8. The New York Post is read by people who don’t care who is running the country as long as they do something really scandalous, preferably while intoxicated and in the wrong bedroom.

9. The Miami Herald is read by people who used to run another country and need the U.S. baseball scores.

10. The San Francisco Chronicle is read by people who aren’t sure if there is a country or that anyone is running it; but if so, they oppose all that they stand for. There are occasional exceptions if the leaders are handicapped, minority, feminist or atheist dwarfs who have a sexual identity problem and perhaps also happen to be illegal aliens from any other country or galaxy, provided, of course, that they are not Republicans.

11. The National Enquirer is read by people trapped in line at Walmart and who think that envelopes are for sending voice mail.

12. The Key West Citizen is read by people who have recently caught a fish and need something to wrap it in.

13. The Appalachia Chronicle is read by people who later on make it a standard feature in their bathrooms.

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When we were young, we used to think he was hiding under our beds, in our closets or around the corner. Thoughts of this terrifying person kept us up at night, prevented us from closing our eyes and made us insist that our parents search every corner of our room, investigate each sound around us and make sure we were safe.

Before I was born, the boogie man was the Soviet Union, spying on us from overhead in a satellite launched in October 1957. He was watching us from above, monitoring our trips to the supermarket, listening to our conversations with our neighbors about the Brooklyn Dodgers’ move to Los Angeles or studying our driving routes to work.

Today, of course, we have plenty of reasons to fear. Terrorists have made death and destruction their business. They appear bent on the idea that killing us somehow helps them.

It’s horrifying and we need to protect ourselves. The manner in which we do that is up for debate, particularly as President Trump and his staff make a point of reminding us of all the events around the world that we should fear.

We need a strong response, a readiness to act and a careful screening process, keeping out the undesirable elements. President Obama seemed intent on protecting the populace, albeit without the same level of directed rhetoric and without policies of exclusion.

No president wants to be in the White House as the griever-in-chief when he knows he could act through policies he has the power to write.

But is there a way to look into the human soul beyond religious stereotypes and beyond geographic boundaries to know what someone may intend to do? Is this boogie man exclusively one religion? Surely, there are plenty of people who grew up in different countries and follow other religions who commit horrible acts.

Do we understand our enemy or do we just want to push those people, whoever they are —  perhaps away?

It’s never been clear to me how we can protect ourselves completely from any motivated aggressor, short of living in a concrete bunker deep in the ground, with admission limited to those with a thorough psychological and DNA profile.

We don’t understand many of the mass murderers in our country. We interview their neighbors, family members and classmates after they’ve committed horrible acts. No one could possibly foresee that this unstable person was capable of these atrocities. And, if their associates could have seen it coming, they are almost admitting culpability. If they say, “Of course, I wrote in my diary two months ago that he might be a killer,” they may feel that they share some responsibility for not preventing these acts.

We need to understand each other and the way the human mind strays off track into a realm of darkness where relief and success are measured in bullets and body counts. We need to know our enemy. I don’t believe we can truly see our enemy in the color of their skin or their passport.

Our mental health system will likely receive fewer dollars in the months and years ahead, so we can focus on building walls and keeping people out. Perhaps a better investment would be to understand the people we fear. Yes, we need to defend ourselves, but we can also build a mental health system that encourages people to find ways to heal instead of hurt. Who knows? Helping the boogie man could turn him into an ally instead of a sworn enemy.

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The headline spoke to me: “More Women in Their 60s and 70s Are Having ‘Way Too Much Fun’ to Retire.” After reading the article, which didn’t disappoint, by Claire Cain Miller in last Sunday’s New York Times, even though I’ve been at odds lately with The Times, I think there is more to the story than fun.

Two recent analyses indicate that “women have become significantly more likely to work into their 60s and even 70s, often full time” and “many of these women report that they do it because they enjoy it,” according to the article. For those 65-69 years of age,-the numbers have almost doubled since the late 1980s from 15 percent to nearly 30 percent.

Perhaps more surprising is the leap in percentage terms for those 70-74 years of age, more than doubling from 8 to 18 percent.

Who are these women?

Those working are more likely to be higher educated and to have savings, studies have shown, while those not working more commonly are in poor health and have low savings, depending on Social Security and perhaps disability. But for their health problems, they too might be among those working.

Why, if they don’t strictly need the money, are the women of “a certain age” still working?

I can offer some of the answers from my own life. Working, full or part time, is more than just “fun,” although there is nothing wrong with enjoying one’s work. A job can offer a purpose to those who are now empty nesters or perhaps without spouses. There is satisfaction in having one’s daily accomplishments measured in some way, whether with salary or by problems solved. Presumably holding a job offers something of value to community and society.

There is also the social aspect of interacting with others and working as a team. Social ties are linked to longer life spans. In addition, working, unless at a job that is exactly the same each day and could be done by a robot, requires thinking and planning, which in turn helps exercise the brain. And the structure that reporting for work imposes in the course of a week might be welcomed by many.

Sometimes working might be a way to preserve a marriage. In a household where the husband might have been the sole breadwinner but is now retired, the spouses might not be completely comfortable with that new arrangement. Work is a respected reason to be apart some of each day.

There might also be a sort of prestige in still working. When people are retired, they may be asked, “What did you do?” as if life has now passed them by. That’s opposed to “What kind of work do you do?” Having a job might convey greater importance.

If the work one does is inherently engaging and one learns from it and meets interesting people, there might be the motivation to keep one’s hand in and stay abreast of new developments and changes in the field.

And no matter how much savings one might reasonably have, drawing down dollars in retirement can be scary. The urge is to stay in place financially and not to drop down. Bringing a stream of income into one’s life can offset that fear.

Finally, for many there is the absolute necessity to earn money in order to survive. They may wish to retire but feel they are unable to afford that luxury.

Whatever the reasons, society benefits from the continuing efforts of experienced workers. It goes without saying that our newspapers treasure older workers alongside our young.

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I was watching television late at night, after my wife drifted off to sleep, when I first saw him. I don’t tend to stop channel surfing when a comedian appears.

He looked like a friend of mine, he had a devilish smile and he wasn’t shouting or barking obscenities at me. He was balding and overweight and was the definition of unglamorous. He was talking as if I was in the room with him and he was sharing observations with me. I’m going to paraphrase one of the first jokes I heard.

“Getting old sucks,” he began.

“You know, when you’re in your 20s and you come in and tell the doctor your shoulder is bothering you, you have, like a hundred options. The doctor can take a piece of your hip and put it in your shoulder, he can make you a new shoulder, and he can fix you right up so you’re good as new.”

The audience nodded appreciatively.

“But, then, you get older and you go to the same doctor with the same complaint and you wait. The doctor smiles at you and listens to your symptoms but, then, he doesn’t offer any heroic solutions. He gives you that understanding look.”

“So, what can we do about this?” you say.

“Well, you can take some Advil if you want,” he says with a shrug.

“But what about all those other options?” you ask. “What about moving around body parts, building a new shoulder and fixing me up so I’m better than I was?”

“Those are no longer possible,” he says, as he shakes his head slowly.

Getting old is difficult. I know doctors and lifestyle coaches and entire industries are dedicated to reversing the effects of aging. Lines on your face? Hey, no problem, there’s a cure for that. Putting on weight as you age? Sure, we can fix you right up, send you food, cook food for you, or convince you through hypnosis that you, in fact, don’t need food.

If a character Tom Hanks played in “Cast Away” could survive for several years on an island by himself with just a volleyball for his friend and a few fish and coconuts here and there, you can most certainly get through a day without coffee, doughnuts or any of the other bare necessities that call to you from the addicted parts of your bodies.

When our kids were small, we used to pack the back of the car with everything we might need. Pack ‘N Play? Check. Stroller? Check. Diaper bag? Got it.

As they got older, we didn’t have much to bring and just told them to get in the car and buckle themselves in.

Somewhere along the lines, though, as our kids needed less to go from point A to point B, we wanted more. Our conversations before we leave the house go something like this.

“I can’t find my vitamins,” my wife says. “Did I take one this morning?”

“I don’t know, but do you know where my reading glasses are?” I ask.

“No, but when you start looking for your distance glasses, they’re on your forehead,” she smiles, pointing at me.

“Oh, good, thanks. Have you seen my Invisalign braces?” I ask.

“I’m not sure if the ones in the kitchen are your new ones or your old ones, but there’s a set on the counter,” she offers.

As I scoop up my plastic braces, I see something familiar next to them.

“Hey, honey?” I shout. “Your vitamins are on the kitchen table.”

Getting old may be challenging but it can also be comical. Just ask comedian Louis C.K.

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It’s a great history lesson. It’s a gymnastic dance performance. It’s a riveting narrative. It’s a clever rap session. It’s an authentic hip-hop musical, almost like an opera. It’s a whirlwind of energy. And it’s a remarkably true story. What is it? It’s “Hamilton,” the hottest Broadway show in many years.

We know that just about everything that is endlessly hyped usually disappoints. Just two things immediately come to my mind where for me there was no let down: the Grand Canyon and “Hamilton.” Now the anticipation ratcheted up was enormous. I bought the tickets when my friend turned 90 years old. It seemed like an appropriate birthday present, this story from the deep past. After all, for many dinners and evenings she had kept me fascinated with her eyewitness retelling of history from the first half of the 20th century. Now we were both going to see early American history come alive on the stage of the Richard Rodgers Theatre.

Let it be told that my friend will shortly be 92. Yes, she and I waited almost two years to get in to see this show. I also invited my 15-year-old granddaughter and another friend a generation younger than I to join us. With that span in ages, we were going to get an accurate demographic spectrum of reactions.

We LOVED it, all of us, from the opening number to the last sad moments of Hamilton’s life. It was witty, it was impassioned, it was fun, it was sexy, it was literate, it was tragic and it was wonderfully written, sung, acted, costumed and staged.

In truth, Lin-Manuel Miranda, inspired by Ron Chernow’s biography, “Alexander Hamilton” (2004), had great material to work with. Hamilton’s life had everything a playwright could have asked for, with perfect timing now for such a story. Hamilton, born out of wedlock in the mid-1750s (exact year uncertain) and orphaned when his mother died in 1768, comes as penniless immigrant from the Caribbean to make his way. He had distinguished himself through his writing at an early age, and men of means sent him to New York. He arrived in the midst of the pre-Revolutionary tumult, was accepted at King’s College (now Columbia University), met some of the key figures of the day and became George Washington’s aide-de-camp, in good part because he spoke French and could translate between Washington and his French ally.

He fought against the British at Yorktown in 1781, married the second daughter of a rich New Yorker, authored the majority of The Federalist Papers, became a successful lawyer, went on to be the first secretary of the treasury, from which position he established the banking system of the nascent United States, was blackmailed in what was one of the nation’s first sex scandals, and ultimately died from a bullet fired by his longtime rival, Vice President Aaron Burr, during a duel on a strip of land above the Hudson in Weehawken. If it sounds like a peripatetic life, that certainly describes the fierce energy of the play about him.

I had the same feeling about this play as I did so many years ago when “My Fair Lady” with Rex Harrison and Julie Andrews ended, that I had just witnessed some sort of breakthrough Broadway event. And as the characters of “Hamilton,” the Founding Fathers, come alive the way they did in that other excellent historic play, “1776,” we recognized them for their magnificent talents and their all-too-human faults.

The erudite New York Times drama critic, Ben Brantley, had this to say about the play when it opened on Broadway in August 2015. “I am loath to tell people to mortgage their houses and lease their children to acquire tickets to a hit Broadway show. But ‘Hamilton’ … might just about be worth it.”

So it’s expensive (unless you win tickets through the lottery that has been set up), it requires patience to wait for the actual performance date on the ticket, and most of the original cast is long gone. But none of that matters. There was never a marquee name connected with the show, unless it was that of Miranda. But his acting wasn’t the reason to go, it was his writing: music, words and creativity. And all that is still there, a wonderful respite from the politics of today.

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How is it possible that every single Democrat thinks Betsy DeVos, the newly minted secretary of education is woefully unqualified for the position and every single Republican — except for Lisa Murkowski of Alaska and Susan Collins of Maine — thinks she’s worthy of the job?

President Trump came to Washington to drain the swamp and to reinvent politics but, at least as far as DeVos goes, this seems like politics as usual. Does this vote presage an era when Republicans and Democrats will, for the most part, stick with the party line, whatever that is?

For the Democrats, is it more important to stand against a secretary the Republicans see as worthy? For the Republicans, did they not see any risk to the education system, or was it more important to stand with Trump?

This country is far from unified, as we demonstrated in November. It’s only gotten worse since then. Both sides are digging in their heels even deeper, preparing for a tug-of-war over the future of the nation.

We are living in a world of facts, alternative facts, fake news and fake tweets. The reality, however, is that we are a house divided. A 51-50 vote makes that resoundingly clear. Wasn’t it Abraham Lincoln who said that a house divided unto itself cannot stand?

Is there a middle ground? Are there ways to walk a mile in each other’s shoes, to see the world through a different perspective or, at least, to respect the process and make independent decisions?

Do we elect our officials so they’ll vote along party lines? If that’s the case, who are we electing? Shouldn’t these senators represent our interests and not demonstrate some loyalty to a party whose entire platform might not be consistent with what We the People believe?

Events in Washington are unprecedented. DeVos is in, thanks to the tiebreaker courtesy of Vice President Mike Pence who voted with his party and with his president.

If I were a political leader from my state, I might take this unprecedented period of discord and find a way to reach across the aisle to my adversaries. It’s not just for the good of the country, it would be a career maker. Imagine if a bill, a person or a policy had bipartisan support?

Suddenly, we’re not the Shepherdsons and Grangerfords, the Hatfields and McCoys, or the Montagues and the Capulets. Someone, somewhere needs to find a friend in Washington and, no, I don’t mean a dog who can co-sponsor legislation and demonstrate true leadership.

Pick an issue, any issue. Job growth? Sure, it’s one of the main items on Trump’s agenda. Education? Well, sure, that’d be nice, but we seem to have come to reached a chasm wider than the Grand Canyon with the approval of DeVos.

Maybe a Democrat and Republican can co-sponsor a way to support the military? Both sides appreciate, support and respect the men and women who protect our nation. It was also the military that beat back the guilt-by-association tactics of Republican Sen. Joseph McCarthy in the early 1950s during the Red Scare.

Let’s raise that flag together and salute the men and women we all cheer during Veterans Day parades, and who we stand and salute at sporting events for their service to our country.

These challenging times present unique opportunities. The future leaders of this nation will be the ones who can show a readiness to get along and think for themselves. A Trump presidency should free other politicians to believe in themselves and their ideas and find other leaders, even someone from the other side, to work for our common good.

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These paraprosdokians were culled from the internet and intended to give you a chuckle.

A paraprosdokian is a form of wordplay where the latter part of a sentence is surprising or unexpected in a way that causes the reader or listener to reframe or reinterpret the first part.

The effect is frequently humorous.

Some examples:

1.   Where there’s a will, I want to be in it.

2.   Since light travels faster than sound, some people appear bright until you hear them speak.

3.   If I agreed with you, we’d both be wrong.

4.   War does not determine who is right — only who is left.

5.   Knowledge is knowing a tomato is a fruit. Wisdom is not putting it in a fruit salad.

6.   They begin the evening news with “Good evening,” then proceed to tell you why it isn’t.

7.   To steal ideas from someone is plagiarism. To steal from many is called research.

8.   In filling in an application, where it says, “In case of emergency, notify,” I put “doctor.”

9.   I didn’t say it was your fault, I said I was blaming you.

10.   Women will never be equal to men until they can walk down the street with a bald head and a beer gut, and still think they look sexy.

11.   Behind every successful man is his woman. Behind the fall of a successful man is usually another woman.

12.   A clear conscience is the sign of a bad memory.

13.   I used to be indecisive. Now I’m not so sure.

14.   Nostalgia isn’t what it used to be. Nor is there any future in it.

15.   Change is inevitable, except from a vending machine.

16.   Going to church doesn’t make you a Christian any more than standing in your garage makes you a car.

17.   Finally: I’m supposed to respect my elders, but it’s getting harder and harder for me to find one now.

18.   The early bird might get the worm, but the second mouse gets the cheese.

19.   Two guys walked into a bar. The third one ducked.

20.   A bank is a place that will lend you money, if you can prove that you don’t need it.

21.   Why does someone believe you when you say there are four billion stars, but has to check when you say the paint is wet.

22.   Why do Americans choose from just two people to run for president and 50 for Miss America?

And my personal favorite:

23.   I am not arguing with you, I am explaining why you are wrong.

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We are all proud of our children. It’s part of the perks of becoming a parent. We beam when they can walk, we celebrate what they say. We applaud their gold stars on their homework sheets, positive comments from their teachers, and their contributions to transformative musical performances that echo long in our minds.

Recently, I attended one of my daughter’s volleyball matches. She is on a new team and I didn’t know most of the other players. As soon as the first set started, it was clear that two of the girls were the leaders, covering tremendous ground to get to a ball, setting the ball from impossible distances to the net, and flying high in the air to spike a ball onto an open spot on the floor.

These two girls were inspiring their teammates with their play, even as they seemed to demand more from themselves with each set.

During the downtime between sets, parents came over to share congratulations, to offer apple slices, and to step away from the loud gym where other girls and their parents were screaming at and applauding each point.

Recognizing this will be a long season and that we’re in this together, I started chatting with several of the other parents, especially when all the children dove headlong into their cellphones during their downtime.

“My daughter is No. 7,” said a beaming woman whose daughter was about 4 inches taller than she was.

“Great,” I nodded appreciatively. “How long did it take you to drive here?”

The conversations were fairly mundane until one of the fathers of the two stronger players shared a plug to charge his iPhone.

“Your daughter is a great player,” I acknowledged.

“Thanks,” he said with a smile. “She’s a survivor.”

“Excuse me?” I asked.

“Yes, she had cancer when she was 1 year old. The pediatrician was doing a routine exam and found something. We sent her for tests and, sure enough, she had cancer.”

“Wow,” I said, stunned that the conversation wasn’t about the weather, if a ball was in or out in the last set, or what we should all do for dinner if we had to stay much longer.

“We went to a bunch of doctors and, finally, we decided to have surgery. Good thing we did, because it was malignant,” he offered.

She probably doesn’t remember it, I thought, because she was too young.

“She actually got cancer again when she was 6, and had to have surgery and chemo when they found out it was malignant again,” he said.

“She’s recovered well,” I admired.

She isn’t particularly tall, but she flies around the court, setting the ball from almost any angle without ever seeming to tire.

“Oh, yeah, well, she goes for testing regularly now, just to be sure,” he said.

She volunteers at a hospital where other children have cancer. She encourages other children and tells them that she knows how they feel. When they seem to doubt it, she shows them a copy of a picture in his wallet of his two daughters when they were 8 and 6. The older girl towers over the younger one, who is impossibly thin and bald.

Looking into this father’s face, I could see that he wasn’t only proud of the difficult journey his daughter had taken but he was inspired. So, too, as it turns out is someone else in the family.

“Yeah,” he said with a nod. “It’s why her older sister is now going to school to become a nurse.”

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By Paul Feinberg

While walking near Central Park the other day, watching the construction of a massive skyscraper, a thought came to mind. On one hand, we as humans posses the brilliance to make this happen, and on the other hand, we have difficulty getting along in a humanistic manner.  Amazing, I say. Sad, I say. Unfortunate, upsetting and disturbing, I say.

In the words of Bob Dylan, “the times they are a changin’.”  But for the better? Or for the worse?     

As I see it, the concept of abuse is out of control. Whether the form taken is physical, mental, sexual, drug, alcohol, eating, et al., it appears out of control.

How difficult it is for humans to fully embrace the concept of “things are the way they are, because we, together, allow it; because we choose to be disconnected.” We seem to struggle to think clearly and to stay united and connected. It takes a conscious level of awareness or mindfulness, or whichever terminology fits, to be developed and focused.

Again we are currently witnessing a high level of abuse in our society, in various forms: violence, terrorism, drug abuse, mental abuse, suffering, among others. We all play a part in allowing it to continue. We can all benefit by training our minds to be caring, respectful, gentle, kind, loving, understanding, tolerant, patient and sensitive with each other and also with ourselves.

We have collectively allowed ourselves to tolerate behaviors which have become the norm in today’s society; behaviors which are abusive, hurtful and disrespectful. Consider allowing ourselves to focus on the effect our behavior has on ourselves and on others — to create a healthier society.

Focus on the effect our behavior is having on the receiver, with regard to sincerity, honesty, caring, understanding, sensitivity, love, compassion and truthfulness — so that this new approach may become infectious and result in an epidemic — like a plague, or a disease which spreads rapidly through society.

Each of us has within us the potential to develop this new consciousness, with the proper training, guidance and support. Let us focus not solely on ourselves, but on others — and collectively work towards creating a healthy society for ourselves and future generations.

Let us allow ourselves to empower ourselves, to feel a greater energy in being part of building a consistently better place to live. Let us be constructors of the creation, rather than recipients of unhealthy circumstances created by individuals with, perhaps, unhealthy motivations.

We do not have to accept these changing times, if we learn how to empower ourselves. Let us collectively do this — in great numbers. Let us not just talk about it. Let us live it as part of our lifestyle on a daily basis.

In the words of Eli Wiesel, “We must always take sides, neutrality helps the oppressor, never the victim. Silence encourages the tormentor, never the tormented. We must interfere.”

Paul Feinberg lives in S. Setauket. He is a retired Three Village junior high school guidance counselor and acting administrator.   

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