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By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

I took my first trip to London with my wife and I never felt like we were far from home or from living history.

In Uber rides, the music of Justin Timberlake, the Pointer Sisters and numerous other American artists provided the soundtrack for our visit.

Walking around the city and descending into the tube, advertisements for American products such as Pepsi and movies such as “The Fall Guy” and “Kingdom of the Planet of the Apes” adorned the sides of hackney cars, the iconic red double-decker buses and the walls of the tube.

The cars on the tube were much narrower than I expected, as people sitting across from me tapped my feet without standing or stretching. 

For a country that drives on the left, I was mystified by the “keep right” signs. If they drive on the left, why do they walk on the right?

London has its fair share of “must visits,” such as the Tower of London, Big Ben and Parliament and the Churchill War Rooms. An imposing and impressive testament to the history of the city and the country, the Tower of London forms a small metropolis with its enormous towers and stories of prisoners. Graffiti on the walls bears the name and religious convictions of those confined to the tower and in some cases tortured or killed.

Big Ben was larger and more elaborate than I imagined. It reminded me of an earlier visit to Mount Rushmore, where I found the size and pageantry of the four former presidents magnificent and moving.

The Churchill War Rooms provided a close up view of the remarkable fortitude and foresight of the celebrated prime minister. At the age of 65, Churchill spent considerable time underground.

When he learned that the facility was vulnerable to a direct hit from a German bomb, he complained in a letter displayed on the wall of the memorial that Patrick Duff, who was permanent secretary of the Office of Works, had “sold him a pup.”

The government added concrete and, after a nearby bomb shook the bunker, Churchill lamented that the bomb didn’t strike close enough to test the reinforcements.

Veterans of the shelter, many of whom rarely saw sunlight underground, shared stories about going under sunlamps to increase their vitamin D, about Churchill’s need for quiet, and about their secret life.

The arms of one of Churchill’s chairs in the cabinet room bears the marks of his fingers digging into the wood, as he listened to testimony, prepared action plans and reacted to news.

Throughout his tenure during the war, Churchill traveled extensively, visiting everywhere from the United States, to Cairo to Moscow, rallying support for the war and visiting foreign leaders and dignitaries, sometimes for more than a month. The Prime Minister, who was almost 71 when the war ended, traveled over 100,000 miles during those tumultuous years. Observers shared parts of his routine, which included two baths a day and three meals per day.

Churchill, who was involved in everything from planning the war effort to offering advice about military technology, pointed out that the government named a tank after him “when they found out it was no damn good!”

Aside from our historical visits, we enjoyed listening to, and watching, people. Like so many other big cities, London attracts guests from around the world, as French, Spanish and German blended with Japanese, Chinese and Arabic languages.

We enjoyed the hospitality of numerous Brits. A beefeater at the Tower of London, which was hit by a few stray bombs, suggested the site wasn’t a target during World War II because it had no strategic value.

Or, perhaps, the Germans and their killer leader “liked the Tower” and didn’t want it or the crown jewels, destroyed.

On the lighter side, we experienced a range of London weather while on a short boat trip on the Thames, as sunlight gave way to dark clouds and wind turned some umbrellas inside out.

The tour guide on the boat offered one of the more unexpected linguistic differences. He described how certain buildings were converted from commercial properties into apartments.

“Wait, what did he just say?” I asked my wife, chuckling.

“What do you mean?”

“I think he’s talking about warehouses and he said, ‘Where asses.’”

Later, when he described a queen’s residence, he also suggested this was one of the queen’s favorite ‘asses.’

Yes, we had a “eck” of a time in London and would be more than “appy” to visit again.

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By Leah S. Dunaief

Leah Dunaief,
Publisher

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My mother was a star.

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TBR News Media attended the annual New York Press Association Spring Conference held at Saratoga Springs April 26 and 27. We were privileged to receive many awards and would not have done so without our readers — so, a sincere thank you.

This yearly conference traditionally serves as a platform for press organizations to meet with and learn from seasoned speakers and professionals within the industry, though this year emphasized a specific focus on a newcomer in the industry — artificial intelligence.

The printing press, invented around 1440, revolutionized how we shared information. Now, AI is poised to do the same for local journalism. While some may fear robots taking over the newsroom, AI offers exciting possibilities for strengthening our community’s connection to local stories.

Imagine a future where AI combs through public records, uncovering hidden trends in traffic data or school board meetings. Journalists, freed from such tedious tasks, can delve deeper into these trends, crafting investigative pieces that hold power to real change. AI can also translate interviews, allowing us to share the stories of a more diverse community.

Local news thrives on hyper-personalization. AI can analyze reader preferences, tailoring news feeds to your interests. This ensures you see not just the headlines, but the stories that truly matter to you. Imagine getting in-depth reporting on the school board race or up-to-the-minute updates on road closures that may affect your usual commute.

Of course, AI isn’t a magic bullet. Ethical considerations abound. We need to ensure AI doesn’t become an echo chamber, reinforcing existing biases. Journalists will remain the cornerstone, using AI as a tool to amplify their human touch — the ability to ask tough questions, identify nuance and connect with the community on a deeper level.

The future of local news isn’t about robots replacing reporters. It’s about AI empowering journalists to tell richer, more relevant stories that connect with you. It’s about ensuring a future where local news remains a vibrant part of the community, informing, engaging and holding power to account. This is an exciting transformation, and together we can ensure AI strengthens, not diminishes, the essential role local journalism plays in our lives.

And we’ll continue to strive for more NYPA awards next year.

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File photo by Raymond Janis

Stony Brook, world-class medicine 

There are many benefits to living in the Three Village area, and access to world-class medicine is one of them. I learned that when I made an unplanned trip to Stony Brook University Hospital via the emergency room. Being in the hospital is no picnic but what I encountered at Stony Brook was overwhelming and mind-boggling, in a very good way.

From the moment I arrived in ER, I knew I was in right place. Comprehensive care was administered immediately, and this continued throughout my stay. Every member of the health care team, from doctors, nurses, nursing supervisors, aides, technicians and staff who performed diagnostic tests, treated me with the utmost kindness and compassion, even though I may have been a train wreck at times.

Stony Brook’s advanced infrastructure and specialized capabilities are legendary, and I experienced firsthand that the level of expertise of their doctors and staff is on par with those standards of excellence. Specifically, I must commend the physicians of the Stony Brook Heart Institute and North Suffolk Cardiology, who worked collaboratively to deliver cutting-edge medicine. 

The entire operation at Stony Brook was first rate and reached the heights of optimal patient care. Everyone I encountered was exceptionally polite, and even the food was good. We are certainly fortunate to have several excellent area hospitals to choose from. In this case, I’m glad I headed to Stony Brook.

Alan Golnick

Stony Brook

Please don’t be late to the East Beach bluff ball again

I have been privy to the changes of Port Jefferson’s East Beach bluff health over four-and-a-half decades that have not previously received emphasis. Initially, the bluff was stable with healthy vegetation to absorb storm runoff from the blacktop, tennis courts and clubhouse. The western jetty entering Mount Sinai Harbor prevented beach sand from washing into the harbor. 

After a number of storms 15-20 years ago, the jetty was destroyed and we watched the beach sand progressively wash into the harbor, taking the bluff with it. It took until 2020 to reconstruct part of the jetty. This delay led to the loss of much of our beach, an undermining of the bluff at its base and loss of its erosion-protecting vegetation. This was caused more by negligence than the 15 years (0.27 inches) of tide rise. 

To make matters worse, deforestation for future pickleball courts at the west end of the parking lot destroyed the vegetation that gave protection from parking runoff during storms and led to additional bluff erosion. Since the jetty’s reconstruction — and after subsequent replacement of beach sand from inlet dredging — our beach is continually restoring itself with accumulation of new sand.

Phase 1 constructed a seawall on half of the eroding bluff and was highly successful in preventing undermining, but it can’t prevent ongoing undermining along the now-unvegetated bluff where no seawall was constructed, nor prevent unprotected drainage erosion from above.

I believe insufficient attention has been given to the latter, which was responsible for the recent storm damage in two areas. It is apparent that we need to quickly remediate the huge nonabsorbent parking lots and tennis court surfaces that surround the clubhouse. With neither huge grants nor the need for extensive approvals, I wonder why we cannot emergently mitigate by converting blacktop parking to absorbent gravel surfaces, redirecting stormwater inland into storm drains, vegetating where tennis courts now exist, and giving serious thought to the village trustee Stan Loucks’ “retreat plan.”

Let there be no doubt, this problem was initiated by not tending to prompt reconstruction of the fallen jetty and subsequent loss of bluff protection from poorly-managed storm drainage above. Now that the ongoing loss of the beach has been reversed with jetty reconstruction, we need to save the bluff with completion of the seawall below, mitigate the nonabsorbent surfaces above — and stop ignoring reality.

Al Cossari

Port Jefferson

Advocating local Recycle and Save programs

As we look at our high rates of waste generation — close to 5 pounds per day per person on Long Island — it is good to explore ways to bring this number down. One of the alternatives that many communities have adopted is Recycle and Save programs which used to be called Pay As You Throw. The advantage of this approach is that it has greatly reduced the rate of individual waste disposal.

Since this would be a radical change in our area, it is best for us to plan over a three-year period in multiple stages.

First stage is training: This would involve training for the waste management staffs, the various town councils, and committees that would be established in each town and village.

Second stage is special topics and challenges: This would involve research on specific issues of concern to our communities, such as which items can be recycled and how and where they are to be recycled.

Third stage is data collection: This would involve surveys of our citizens to reveal their attitudes, behaviors and acceptability.

Fourth stage is behavior change: This is accomplished through publicity and the creation of a comprehensive and explicit website. I would recommend the one that was created by the Alameda County Department of Waste Management in California. The county has decreased its rate to 1.6 pounds of waste per day per person.

This approach moves us in the direction of zero waste and is long overdue in our area. Many communities in the United States have been embracing this policy since the 1980s.

John J. McNamara

Rocky Point

RIP

It’s time “Lady Justice” removes her blindfold, as our nation perishes. “God bless America,” from a veteran of World War 2 and the Greatest Generation.

Leonard J. Henderson

Port Jefferson

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By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

Yeah, yeah, yeah, I get it. It’s a shock that it’s May 1st because the new month is always a surprise.

It’s something to talk about, I suppose, and it suggests that time continues to move in the only direction we have ever experienced. 

In the realm of things I can’t believe, I’d like to share a few items that range from the trivial to the surreal, without touching most of the third rails in our lives.

For starters, I can’t believe it’s over 24 years since Y2K. Remember all the hullabaloo about how every electronic system we had might fail at the start of the year 2000? People were afraid to fly, imagined that their computers would malfunction and that all manner of automated systems would get something between a computer version of the hiccups and malfunction completely. It seems like only yesterday and yet a world away that we were concerned about the year 2000.

Speaking of 2000, I remember calculating how incredibly old I’d be in 2000. And yet, here we are, 24 years, and counting, later. Gulp!

I don’t remember the first or even the last manned moon landing. I was alive, but not old enough to process any of the remarkable moments in the space program. Now, NASA is planning a manned trip around the moon next year and, in 2026, intends to send astronauts to the moon’s south pole. I’m excited to see people hopping around in lighter gravity while wearing modern spacesuits. I wonder if those outfits will have corporate logos and if the astronauts will send us live feeds from their helmet cams.

On a more personal level, I can’t believe the milestones that the next generation has passed. Our daughter graduated from college, our nephew got married, and our son will vote in the next presidential election for the first time.

Speaking of the presidential election, I can’t believe two candidates who evoke such ire, scorn and disappointment nationally are running yet again. I know we’re slowly marching towards yet another tight race between two angry older men, but I can’t help wondering why neither party and the electorates couldn’t come up with another alternative.

That doesn’t include Robert Kennedy Jr. who isn’t exactly a unifier. Even his siblings have disowned him politically, vowing to vote for President Joe Biden rather than their anti-vax relative.

On a more mundane level, I can’t believe how infrequently I have gone to the movies. From the time we started dating, my wife and I loved the movies. We’d make sure we got to the theater early, waited for overpriced popcorn and, back in the day when I could eat M&M’s and other chocolate candies, would mix candy into the bucket to create a salty-sweet movie snack.

At the end of the movie, we’d get the free popcorn refill and bring it home, where our daughter would pick at it that night or the next morning, listening to a synopsis of the film.

We still watch movies and, as readers of this column may remember, attended “Oppenheimer” in person, but we haven’t planned an evening around a trip to the movies in years.

On the many plus sides of technology, I can’t believe how much easier the logistics of life are with a phone that redirects me when I go the wrong way, that allows me to connect with friends and family all over the world, and that calls anyone in my contact list without my needing to remember a phone number or even dialing or pushing buttons. I still remember the phone numbers of some high school and college friends, not that I’d ever need them, especially since their families have either moved away or given up their land lines.

Oh, and, thanks to my sister-in-law’s efforts to go through older files in my mom’s house, I now have a collection of photos from my high school graduation and prom. I can’t believe I thought that mustache looked good. Then again, that was the age of Tom Selleck and Magnum PI. Much as I might blame the actor for my facial hair, I was more likely following the stylings of my older brother, the family trendsetter.

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

By Leah S. Dunaief

Leah Dunaief,
Publisher

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

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

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

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

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

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

His name became synonymous with betrayal and treason.

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

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

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

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

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

Their lives were footnotes in history with two sad tales.

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April 22, 1970, marked the first Earth Day celebration. A day dedicated to Mother Earth, to appreciate, recognize and demonstrate support for the planet we inhabit. A time to reflect on the impact our actions have on the environment but, more importantly, it’s a springboard for action.

Here in our own communities, the need for environmental stewardship is particularly relevant. From keeping our streets and parks clean to embracing sustainable practices, we can all play a vital role. The good news is there’s a wave of positive momentum building.

Numerous opportunities exist for us to roll up our sleeves and make a real difference. 

Friends of the Greenway is hosting a cleanup day, on Saturday, April 27. Beginning at 9 a.m. at the Port Jefferson Station trailhead, meet with members of the community to aid in the cleanup efforts along the beloved Greenway Trail. 

If your artistic side thrives outdoors, join the Gallery North Cleanup on April 27 and 28. Day 1 will be held at Flax Pond Tidal Wetland Area on Saturday and day 2 at Smith Point Beach on Sunday. Each cleanup will be conducted in two shifts starting at 9 a.m. and 10:30 a.m. each day. The event is free and open to the public, and will be held rain or shine. All ages are welcome.

On Saturday, May 18, the Great Brookhaven Cleanup will offer a chance to tackle litter in our neighborhoods. Part of a national effort, the event draws over 5 million volunteers in more than 20,000 communities across America who come together to pick up litter and clean miles of roadway, rivers, lakes and more. Last year, the Great Brookhaven Cleanup drew more than 2,600 volunteers.

Stony Brook University also stepped up with Earth Day events — several student clubs joined together to organize a beach cleanup last Saturday, April 20, at West Meadow Beach.

But Earth Day isn’t just about one-time cleanups. Sustainability is the key to long-term environmental health. The Town of Smithtown’s recent upcycling program, NexTrex with the Trex Company, serves as a shining example. This initiative allows residents to transform used plastic into eco-friendly composite materials.

Let’s take inspiration from these efforts. Consider reducing your single-use plastics, opting for reusable alternatives. Support local farmers markets and businesses committed to sustainable practices. Every little bit counts.

Earth Day is more than just a day on the calendar. It’s a call to action, a reminder that the well-being of our environment is intrinsically linked to our own. Let’s celebrate this Earth Day not just with words, but with dedicated action. Together, we can build a cleaner, more sustainable future for generations to come.

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Tag and bake sale at historic Stony Brook Community Church

Deborah Davis invited two preachers 215 years ago to come to Stony Brook and establish a new church which would meet in her home. This was the start of the Stony Brook Community Church., and its first offering collected a then-impressive $1.31. Unfortunately this rate of contributions did not continue as the collection for the entire first year was $2.56. 

In 1817, several denominations joined together to stop worshiping in Mrs. Davis’ house — which still stands across the street from the church — and to build a simple church building. This was replaced by the current structure in 1860, at 216 Christian Ave., that Stony Brook Community Church still occupies. The church steeple, held together with pegs instead of nails, became a landmark for sailors, helping to guide them into the harbor. When in 1908, the building was in serious need of repairs, the job was done with volunteer labor for $800 for materials. Unfortunately, by the time the steeple was struck by lightning in 1982, repairs had become distinctly more expensive.

On Saturday, May 4, from 10 a.m. until 3 p.m. — rain date May 5, 12 to 4 p.m. — the church is hosting a tag and bake sale to help make up for the way prices have increased since that first offering in 1809. The historic church building and the equally historic cemetery — the oldest grave dating to 1813 — will be open to visitors during the sale. 

Tag and Bake Sale Committee

Stony Brook Community Church

Happy 190th anniversary to Long Island Rail Road 

Let us all wish a happy 190th anniversary to the Long Island Rail Road. On April 24, 1834, the Long Island Rail Road was officially chartered by the State of New York to run from the Brooklyn waterfront 95 miles east to Greenport. In 1900, the Pennsylvania Railroad bought a controlling interest as part of its plan for direct access to Manhattan which began on September 8, 1910. The Pennsylvania Railroad subsidized the LIRR into the late 1940s. This provided the financial basis for support of expansion and upgrades to service and infrastructure.

 At the end of World War II, there began a decline of our LIRR with a corresponding loss of farebox revenues. The Pennsylvania Railroad began to reduce financial support as well. This played a part in the LIRR going into receivership in 1949. In recognition of the role the LIRR played in the economy of both Long Island and NYC, New York State began providing financial assistance to the LIRR in the 1950s and 1960s. 

The “Line of the Dashing Dan” was officially chartered on April 24, 1965, by the State of New York. In 1966, NYS bought the railroad’s controlling stock from the Pennsylvania Railroad and put it under the newly-formed Metropolitan Commuter Transportation Authority. The MCTA changed its name to the Metropolitan Transportation Authority in 1968 when it took over operations of the NYC Transit Authority.

 With MTA subsidies, the LIRR modernized further and grew into the busiest commuter railroad in the United States. Over the past 50 years, several billion dollars in combined county, city, state and federal taxpayer-generated dollars have subsidized both the capital and operating costs for the LIRR. 

Riders must remember that fare hikes are periodically required if the MTA is to provide the services millions of New Yorkers use daily.

Larry Penner

Great Neck

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By Daniel Dunaief

Everywhere we go, we are surrounded by sights, sounds, and smells. More often than not, other people need something from us, want to talk with or at us, and expect us to provide feedback, learn from them, acknowledge them or validate their existence.

At the same time, our texts, emails, social media apps, and others require checking, replying, reacting and thought.

Throughout the day, we aren’t just draining our cell phone’s battery, we are also draining our own battery. We need time for our nervous system to catch up, to take a break and to experience the world around us in a calmer way.

For me, that happened recently when I went to a religious service. I don’t go all that often even though I often walk away feeling refreshed.

These services offer an opportunity not only to disconnect from my phone for several hours, but also a chance to be present, centered, and focused.

The words and the songs are familiar, which other members of the congregation say or sing, helping me feel like I’m a part of a connected group.

During the service, I am focused on where I am, reading the same text as everyone else and reacting, as if by reflex, to some of the interactive speaking parts.

This occurs even when I travel, as I did recently to attend a service. I didn’t know most of the people in the room and yet we reacted and interacted for several hours as if we had grown up next to each other, played on the street with our neighbors, attended the same schools and shared the same hopes for ourselves and our children.

Some of the songs had slightly different melodies, but they were more of a variation on a theme than a journey into another religious, spiritual or musical genre.

During these times in a house of worship, I appreciate and enjoy the quieter voice of some of the speakers, who encourage me to think of myself and my world in different ways and who share a wonderful combination of thought, insight, perspective, and spiritual ideas.

While I listen to them, some thoughts I have that might otherwise not bubble up to the turbulent surface of my life, where a combination of bright sun, wind, and cross currents of thoughts, ideas, actions and deadlines create a potentially exciting but murkier picture, can receive attention.

Through these thoughts, I can make connections to earlier versions of myself, track where I am and where I’m heading, and think about people who helped shape who I am but are no longer in my life.

I can also delve more deeply into the kinds of questions and thoughts that don’t tend to help with an assignment or a deadline, pondering the nature of existence and the meaning of life

I can reflect on the amazing and inspirational people I am fortunate to know, and the exhausting but miraculous gift of our children, who inherit the world we helped shape or alter during the course of our lives.

One image often appears in my mind as I breathe, think and listen during the service: that is of a tree with the words “I was here.” When I was younger, I didn’t understand why anyone would cut into a tree to let the world know they were here.

Over time, I’ve thought about the cave drawings primitive man made, the graffiti that adds color and chaos to our world and those words in a tree in the same way. In those moments, people are declaring, the way Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin did when they planted an American flag on the moon, that their journey through life brought them to this place and time. They are announcing and reaffirming themselves.

I’m not advocating for carving anything into a tree or for painting graffiti. Instead, by sitting, standing and singing together, we are announcing to the other people in the room and to ourselves not just that “I am here,” but that “We are here.” While we might take that for granted much of the time, a religious service gives us the chance to marvel at the wonder of the connections we’ve made and at our existence and all it does and could mean.

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By Leah S. Dunaief

Leah Dunaief,
Publisher

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

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

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

Sounds like a fairly risk-free plan, right?

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

What has happened?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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