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By Leah S. Dunaief

Leah Dunaief

When I make my way downstairs in the morning, I am often singing, usually some show tune. This never occurred to me as being something special until now. But I recently read an article by Alexandra Moe in The Washington Post that “singing is good for you.” Since it’s always nice to learn that something you do is actually good for you, I am sharing this result of significant research with you. Perhaps now you will feel emboldened to sing beyond the shower.

In a study called, “Sing With Us,” conducted on members of a choir in a London suburb, tests performed before and after they sang indicated an increase in their physical and mental health. This was no ordinary choir, but rather one made up of cancer patients, and their singing “reduced stress hormones and increased cytokines, proteins that can boost the body’s ability to fight serious illness.” Ultimately the study involved 192 patients. 

Other studies have found singing “lessened anxiety, stimulated memory for those with dementia, increased lung capacity and an easing of postpartum depression.” While singing in a group offers additional benefits, like social bonding and community, just singing because you feel like, if you are alone or with someone else, is calming and promotes a sense of well-being.

My mother would sing often when she was in the kitchen preparing meals. So did my dad, who would break into song at no particular time. I never thought about it then, but they did have nice voices, and they did sing on key. They didn’t sing together, just spontaneously. And they really were singing, not just humming along while they worked. No one thought it was strange, as far as I knew. It was in this way that I learned the lyrics to any number of World War I songs, which were popular when my dad was a teen. When, as a child, I would start to sing one of them, older people who might be sitting on a park bench, for example, would look surprised and ask where I had learned them.

And that is how my children learned Broadway show tunes. When we went on long car trips, in particular, we would spend much of the time singing together. I grew up amidst the Rogers and Hammerstein, then Rogers and Hart musicals of the 1940s and 1950s, the “golden age of musical theater,”and my children know those lyrics as if they had seen those magical shows, which were well before their births.

Some of our favorites were: “Oklahoma!” from the show of the same name, “Getting to Know You,” from “The King and I,” “Somewhere Over the Rainbow,” from “The Wizard of Oz,” “Some Enchanted Evening,” from “South Pacific,” and “Anything You Can Do, I Can Do Better,”  (a natural for our three boys) from “Annie Get Your Gun.”

All I had to do was start with, “Chicks and ducks and geese better scurry, When I take you out in the Surrey,” and they would all start singing from the back seat of the car. 

While I loved all the melodies, my particular favorites were from “My Fair Lady,” including “The Rain in Spain,” “Wouldn’t It Be Loverly,” “Just You Wait, Henry Higgins,” “I Could Have Danced All Night,” “You Did It,” “Get Me to the Church On Time,” and “I’ve Grown Accustomed to Her Face.”

I share this with you so you will know what I am singing when I begin. It is, I’m afraid, not always apparent. On the other hand, I would encourage anyone to sing, even if you think you can’t carry a tune or have a terrible voice. A friend was asked to try out for a play when she was in junior high, and when she began to sing the required song, the teacher interrupted her with, “No, really.” He thought she was kidding. But it was “really,” and for many years, she never again sang until she met me.

Everyone should sing, softly if you must, but do it. And if anyone asks, it’s for your health.

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On this page, we do the work of democracy.

The first editorial ever published in our newspaper [“The spirit of ’76,” April 8, 1976] declared our opinion pages as “a forum where everybody has an opportunity to be heard.” Through the many changes over the last 47 years, we affirm this creed unconditionally, subject to concerns of libel and good taste.

For nearly half a century, our staff, columnists and letter writers have broadcast ideas to the North Shore public each week. This page is our weekly community dialogue keeping vital communication channels alive.

Debate ennobles citizens. Through spirited exchanges, we empower our peers to interpret and digest local current events, enabling rational, informed decisions at the ballot box.

But how our times have changed.

With innovation, many of our discussions have moved from the printed page to the digital screen. Citizens today take their disagreements to social media, where opinions are not subjected to rigorous editorial standards and vetting procedures.

Social media often discourages thoughtful dissent. Unfiltered, shielded by screens, we inject venom and misinformation into our public forum. The natural consequence of this toxic social media culture is the decay of civility and decorum.

We live in a hypercharged, decidedly polarized political context. We expect media outlets and tech companies to squelch meaningful exchanges. We seek only information affirming our existing — often incomplete — worldviews.

Instead of debating, we dehumanize and delegitimize our political opponents. Through our collective softness and fear of dissent, we paint a warped picture of reality.

While our staff may object to some of the sentiments advanced on this page, we remind our readers that we are moderators, not censors. We hold up the words attributed to Voltaire, the great French philosophical champion of free speech, who once wrote, “I disapprove of what you say, but I will defend to the death your right to say it.”

We disagree with outlets and tech companies that censor divergent speech, stymie political discourse or needlessly encroach upon our deliberative process. However, we disallow hatred or what appears as personal attacks. 

As journalists, we cannot bend our editorial code to meet the censorial standards of our age.

For this republic to endure, we must return to honest disagreement. So in this spirit, let us continue this noble work, allowing the conversations to flourish.

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By Leah S. Dunaief

Leah Dunaief

“I’m bored!” exclaimed my cousin, when we were about 10 and sitting in the backyard of my grandfather’s former dairy farm in the Catskills one summer afternoon.

I thought about that for a few seconds. “What does bored mean?” I asked, genuinely puzzled.

“It means I have nothing to do,” she railed. 

“Oh. I’ve never been bored,” I replied unhelpfully.

“What do you do when you have nothing to do?” she demanded.

Again it took a few seconds. “I think,” I offered lamely.

My aunt, her mother, who was sitting nearby, burst out laughing.

Looking disgusted, my cousin got up and walked away.

I thought of that exchange, so many years ago, when I saw the headline in last Tuesday’s New York Times: “Let Children Get Bored. It’s Good for Them.” The article went on to advise that “in moderate doses, boredom can offer a valuable learning opportunity, spurring creativity and problem solving and motivating children to seek out activities that feel meaningful to them.”

How, exactly, did I spend my summertime hours when a visit from my cousin was a rarity and there was nothing structured amid the grassy cow pastures?

By the beginning of July, during my elementary school years, I had my books already signed out from the neighborhood library. There was a rule limiting the number that could be withdrawn at one time, but the librarians knew me, knew that I would be taking them away for the summer, that I would take good care of them and return them in September, so they let me exceed the number. Often they would make recommendations that added to my pile. So reading made up a large part of my waking hours.

I also remember picking blueberries from the bushes that grew in the pasture behind the house. They were wild berries. I don’t think anyone planted them there. They were sweet and delicious, and when I had my fill, I would bring back a small amount for my mother and sister, who were with me during the week. My dad would come up by Shoreline Bus on the weekends, and then I would roam with him across many pastures, marked by low stone walls, collecting blueberries in greater quantities.

I would invent games, like selecting a large rock as a target, then throwing small rocks at it from increasing distances, keeping score from one day to the next. If it rained, I would empty the glass jar in which my mother kept loose coins, place a pot against the far wall of the kitchen, then try to pitch the coins into the pot. To this day, I have pretty good aim when I toss something.

As an offshoot from reading, I guess, I would write sometimes. One of my favorite stories was about the antics of the Bobbsey Twins, by Laura Lee Hope, and I would try to dream up adventures for them when I had finished their books. I also loved horses, read the whole series about the Black Stallion by Walter Farley, then tried to extend it with my own amateurish episodes.

Sitting in the shade of a tree, I know I did a lot of daydreaming. I don’t remember any of those thoughts, but I do recall that I loved the smell of the nearby evergreens when the breeze blew and the warmth of the sun on my skin as it dipped down below the level of the tree limbs. In the evening, we could hear the frogs croaking and see fireflies momentarily lighting up the night sky. There were stars, millions of stars that were not visible in the city. And there was The Lone Ranger on the radio at 7:30.

My sister was two years younger, and I would make up scenarios in which I would be Miss Brown, and she would be my secretary. I would send her on all kinds of made-up errands, like mailing a letter at a pretend postal box a block away, and she would gladly run to oblige.

There was an innocence and a peacefulness in those loosey-goosey days that I think today’s youth, with their cell phones and video games, never know.

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File photo by Raymond Janis

WRITE TO US … AND KEEP IT LOCAL

We welcome your letters, especially those responding to our local coverage, replying to other letter writers’ comments and speaking mainly to local themes. Letters should be no longer than 400 words and may be edited for length, libel, style, good taste and uncivil language. They will also be published on our website. We do not publish anonymous letters. Please include an address and phone number for confirmation.

Email letters to: [email protected] or mail them to TBR News Media, P.O. Box 707, Setauket, NY 11733

Democracy at work

The proudest day of my life was when my parents and I took the oath to become citizens of the United States. I was 8 years old. 

As a Russian emigrant, my father applied for and received a Tolstoy grant, which sponsored our family’s journey to America. They arrived on these shores with a baby, a box of books and dreams for a brighter future.

This election season in Port Jefferson brought back the feeling of pride I experienced at becoming a citizen of this great nation.

I went to meet-and-greets for all the candidates and attended the debates. I observed as people of varied and even opposing political leanings coalesced around the candidate they thought best represented their vision for our village. I participated in putting up signs, knocking on doors and engaging in spirited discourse with my neighbors.

This was democracy at work, and it renewed my faith in the American spirit. All of us were motivated by the love we have for this beautiful harborfront village we call home and a desire to help steer it toward a better tomorrow.

I, for one, am honored to help us paddle.

Xena Ugrinsky

Port Jefferson

Personal attacks are not helpful

I’m deeply disappointed with the editor’s decision to print a letter that seeks to contrast me with the wonderful couple who own Kai Li Kitchen in East Setauket [subjects in our “American Dream” series, May 25]. 

This letter continues a false narrative that aims to distinguish between good and bad immigrants, painting me as a complaining socialist who doesn’t work hard. That is an unfair and unsubstantiated personal attack. I am an immigrant to this country, the first of my family to grow up and attend college here. I have been an educator for almost a quarter of a century in public and higher education. I am an advocate for a range of issues as both a volunteer and in my paid professional work. 

As a citizen of this country, I have my First Amendment rights, and I use them eloquently and fully with no apology. I love this country deeply, so deeply that I am willing to do the work of improving it. It is why I have advocated for economic, environmental, social and racial justice at all levels of government. What [letter writer] Mr. Graziano calls “complaining,” I call the work of citizenship. The progress that happens in this nation has occurred because of people who would not accept the status quo as the final product.

As someone who has written in this paper for years, I’m disappointed to see the decline in quality in recent months. It seems that the editors of TBR News Media have turned the letters-to-the-editor page into a venue where personal attacks on residents are fair game. Residents and subscribers deserve better from local journalism than this.

Shoshana Hershkowitz

South Setauket

My heart is breaking for Port Jeff

It’s a sad day in the Village of Port Jefferson today. The election is over and to the surprise of many, Kathianne Snaden did not get enough of her supporters out to vote for her. This paper called the results an “upset.”

The reason I feel compelled to write is many residents don’t realize that as a result of the vote, Kathianne is now off the Board of Trustees completely, as her term expires in a short few days. What a huge loss for this village. Four years of village government knowledge and proven results are literally out the window now. You may not fully know all Kathianne did and was responsible for, which we have now lost. And after you read this you should be “upset” as well.

As our commissioner of public safety and liaison to code, Kathianne worked with the Suffolk County Police Department and brought increased enforcement and specialized SCPD units here to Port Jeff that other villages don’t get and in doing so lowered crime numbers in the village drastically. That relationship is gone now.

As liaison to parking, Kathianne worked to build the first new parking lot in 40 years in Port Jeff to address our chronic parking problems.

Kathianne worked tirelessly to beautify this village, creating parks, cleaning up dilapidated overgrown areas and instead creating small pocket parks and green spaces. The flowers you see in this village are a direct result of Kathianne’s efforts, saving you money instead of paying a gardener to do this. That eye for keeping the village sharp looking is now gone.

As commissioner of building and planning, Kathianne worked to streamline that department and helped create housing solutions that could bring more families into the village — benefiting our schools and businesses alike. Gone.

Speaking of families, we have lost the only Board of Trustees member that has kids in the school district. Kathianne worked with the district to create a positive relationship where both the schools and the village benefited as well as every one of your kids. Parents: Kathianne was your pro-schools voice in village government. That voice is gone now, leaving louder voices intent on trying to close the schools.

The loss to this village is immense. My heart breaks for this village and for my wife. She’s being prevented from doing what she loves to do and what she excels at: Making a difference in the daily lives of all Port Jeff residents.

William Snaden

Port Jefferson

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Donald Triplett. Photo from Wikimedia Commons/ Ylevental, CC BY-SA 4.0 , via Wikimedia Commons

By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

At a recent national meeting of experts in his field, Matthew Lerner said the gathering paused to toast the remarkable life of Donald Triplett.

Born and raised in Forest, Mississippi, Triplett died on Thursday, June 15 at the age of 89, after a full life in which his family, his community and a medical and research field around him learned about a condition he helped various communities understand.

Triplett was different from other children growing up, and in 1943, after his parents brought him to psychiatrist Dr. Leo Kanner, he became “Case 1” for a new diagnosis called autism.

“Everything we know about autism started with what was learned from Donald,” said Lerner, associate professor in Clinical Psychology at the Stony Brook Neurosciences Institute. “I’m still confident the field would have found its way to autism,” but the interaction between Triplett and Kanner helped establish some of the parameters that define a condition that researchers estimate affects about one in 36 children today.

As with people who have other diagnoses, the reaction people have to those with autism varies.

“There are two broad threads in the history of how we’ve understood, studied and treated autism since the 1940s,” said Lerner.

In one, people consider it a lifetime disability, in which the diagnosis is limiting and stigmatizing.

In the second, people see autism as a different way of being, in which individuals have an opportunity to develop a meaningful and happy life, as was the case with Triplett.

“The idea of autism as being so different and so impairing was the prototype,” Lerner said. Triplett’s life “didn’t follow that trajectory at all. He had a life filled with community in which he felt supported and accepted.”

This second model of autism, Lerner added, is achievable in “far more cases than we may have historically assumed.”

Triplett, who worked at the Bank of Forest for 65 years and traveled the world, had unusual cognitive abilities that set him apart from neurotypical people. He could multiply two three-digit numbers rapidly without a calculator. He also could look at the side of a building and could indicate the number of bricks without counting them one by one. He had perfect pitch.

As he was growing up, he didn’t interact socially in typical ways for children his age. His parents institutionalized him for a year, where he became withdrawn and disinterested. When they brought him back to their home, he became more engaged, earning a high school and bachelor’s degree in French from Millsaps College.

“He may have been the first, but he was far, far, far from the only autistic person who ended up exceeding the horizons set for him when he was young,” Lerner said.

Lerner believed people in the autistic community, like Triplett, have something to teach others about challenging circumstances.

“Kids are going to get where they are going at their own pace,” Lerner said. Being patient and kind and taking time to meet people where they are as individuals can help people grow. Lerner suggested that “we need to be okay with the idea that what that person is going to be is themselves and the best thing we can do is create a space” for that development to occur.

People will develop when they don’t feel like they are failing because people around them are setting expectations that don’t match them or are underestimating what they can do, he added.

“It’s important to feel validated and valued” through life, Lerner said.

Parents of children from a wide range of abilities sometimes hear what their offspring will never do.

People are frequently “proven wrong” by that child in that family, he added.

As for Triplett, Lerner encouraged people to watch the movie ’In a Different Key” about the person later known as Case 1.”

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By Charles J. Napoli

One winter day, I was on my way to deliver The Brooklyn Eagle. It was the early 1950s, when I lived in Brooklyn.

I was riding my homemade bike. It was only a green frame and tires. It had no chain guard, no fenders, no kickstand and no rubber hand grips. It had only one pedal. It was all that I could afford. I remember my grandmother gave me a shot of homemade dandelion wine to keep me warm.

When I reached the corner of my block with my canvas bag tied to my handlebars, I saw Zeke with his friends. He was the chief of the Indian motorcycle gang. They were headed my way.

So I yelled out, “Hi, Zeke,” and his friends burst out laughing. Zeke then came over to me, put his arm around me and said, “This is my good friend, and anyone who messes with him messes with me.” I was in my glory.

Zeke was my idol. He was a born leader, a philosopher-king, a warrior-poet and chose his battles wisely. He always wore jeans, a jean jacket, a garrison belt and motorcycle boots. Zeke was bold, wise, honest, kind and humble. He had the right swagger and governed with humility.

When I was a bit older — in the late 1950s — I was able to buy myself a Benelli motorcycle with money I had saved up. I wore jeans, a jean jacket, a garrison belt and motorcycle boots.

I don’t know what happened to Zeke, but he was special. I bet he was one of the best Ringolevio players in all of Brooklyn (“The game of life you play for keeps.”).

Whenever I’m in a jam and don’t know what to do, I ask myself: “What would Zeke have done?” He was my true friend and mentor.

The writer is a resident of Stony Brook.

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WRITE TO US … AND KEEP IT LOCAL

We welcome your letters, especially those responding to our local coverage, replying to other letter writers’ comments and speaking mainly to local themes. Letters should be no longer than 400 words and may be edited for length, libel, style, good taste and uncivil language. They will also be published on our website. We do not publish anonymous letters. Please include an address and phone number for confirmation.

Email letters to: [email protected] or mail them to TBR News Media, P.O. Box 707, Setauket, NY 11733

Credit where credit is due

We would like to thank the staff at The Port Times Record for their June 15 editorial [“Election Day is only the beginning”], in which they acknowledged some of the contributions the Port Jefferson Civic Association has made.

There was one item, however, that was incorrectly attributed to us: the formation of a tree committee.

While our membership fully supports the preservation of our village tree canopy, and several PJCA members volunteered to staff the committee, the primary credit for developing it belongs to Village of Port Jefferson trustee Rebecca Kassay.

PJCA member Kelly DeVine initially brought the idea to trustee Kassay, who followed up on it with extensive research on tree-related efforts in various villages within New York state and beyond. She discovered many municipalities have dedicated committees to assist staff and board members in managing a village’s canopy.

Trustee Kassay further consulted with chairs and founders of other tree committees to gather insights and information. These findings were presented to Deputy Mayor Kathianne Snaden, who expressed support for the creation and development of the Port Jefferson Village Tree Committee.

We just wanted to make sure to give credit where credit is due.

Ana Hozyainova, President

Kathleen McLane, Outreach Officer

Port Jefferson Civic Association

American dreams for some, not all

What a beautiful story in The Village Times Herald May 25 [“American Dream” series] on page A7 about the Huangs legal journey from China to the United States and how they worked hard and sent money home to bring other family members here.

Their hard work, sacrifice and ultimate success at their Kai Li Kitchen in East Setauket is a true American Dream story. I have many Chinese friends who did the same, as well as my four Italian grandparents. 

It’s too bad that the May 25 letter by Shoshana Hershkowitz [“Words matter in immigration dialogue”] could not have been on page A8. What a dichotomy. Almost every week she is complaining about something in this country. She belongs to Citizen Action of New York (website: citizenactionny.org), that is, progressives like AOC, Warren and Sanders. They bash Republicans, Conservatives and corporations. The problem with socialism is that it needs capitalism to survive. Thus, the ironic hypocrisy.

There is a legal way to become a citizen and an illegal way to play the system. The new “messaging” from the “left” is that “everyone” entering the country illegally is an asylum seeker (see Newsday, June 19). According to Ms. Hershkowitz’s statement, “Asylum seekers are fleeing their countries because of climate change, poverty and political violence.” If that’s true, the whole world can move here. We have the same issues: climate change, antifa (who the left were silent about as the group destroyed federal buildings and businesses in Portland, Oregon, and Seattle, Washington), Proud Boys and millions of our own citizens who live in poverty.

So when these “illegal asylum seekers” arrive we are supposed to just let them in, while the people who are legally emigrating from their countries wait to gain citizenship and get penalized by following the law? And I suppose it’s OK for the citizens in Texas, Arizona and California to bear the brunt of the huge, intentional failure at the border by Biden, Harris and Mayorkas. 

According to the House Committee on Homeland Security, as of Jan. 23 there have been over 4.5 million encounters at the Southwest border in addition to over 1.2 million “gotaways.” When the illegal immigrants were sent to Martha’s Vineyard, I don’t recall the vice president commenting on their next-day overnight extradition to mainland Massachusetts by the NIMBYs. 

The hypocrisy of these elites and socialists is obvious. It’s all about future voters and power at the expense of the citizens of this country. 

To the Huangs and Kai Li Kitchen (Chinese translation, “triumphant victory forever”), well done.

Rocky Graziano

Setauket

Two points of view

As an avid reader of the letters section of your paper, I felt compelled to write about the recent exchange of views on the issue of language and the words we use to describe the immigrants who are coming to the United States.

I know both writers personally and know them to be good people who are community-minded and who have worked to make our Three Villages a better place. I think both made good arguments about the current debate, and considering other points is what the American experiment in democracy requires its citizens to do in the pursuit of consensus.

We all know that our recent political discourse has changed, and not for the better. It seems now that we only want to hear one point of view, and criticize or discredit others whose points of view differ from our own.

Local newspapers play an important role in letting the community know about important issues and the various opinions of the people who live here, and I appreciate that.

We can learn a lot by being open to our differing views and maybe even find better solutions for the problems and challenges that we face as a community.

Thank you TBR News Media and to both writers for sharing your thoughts on a very heated and controversial subject.

George Hoffman

Setauket

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Volunteer in your community. METRO photo

Over the years, this paper has had the pleasure of telling countless stories of members of our community going out of their way to give back and take the time to volunteer. Readers will see in our papers this week that the Guide Dog Foundation is looking for puppy raisers, surely a rewarding and noble role for animal lovers.

We encourage anyone inspired by that story to, as always, consider volunteering. Realistically, we know that most of us do not have the time and bandwidth to raise a puppy for someone else. That doesn’t mean we shouldn’t all do our part to make the world a better place. 

Help someone in the grocery store who can’t carry their bags. Offer to shop for an elderly neighbor or simply stop in to check on them. Volunteering can take many of these forms.

Volunteering is meant to benefit others, and that should be the goal. Signing up for something simply to make oneself feel better, or pat oneself on the back won’t benefit anyone. However, it is often us who feel better, fulfilled and rewarded after doing something for others.

We are lucky to live in a prosperous area. Many of us have been fortunate enough to never know the struggle of not being able to feed our families or pay for gas. Several members of our community aren’t that lucky. The old saying, “We rise when lifting others,” applies here. The more time we take to help those less fortunate, the better off we will be.

It can be difficult to find the correct opportunity for volunteering, in trying to figure out what speaks to our passions. Keep a watchful eye in our papers, social media and among our neighbors for new opportunities, and as mentioned make our own. 

To all of the members of our community that already volunteer, we thank you. We know it can be difficult to find time for ourselves, let alone others. We also know that it’s worth it.

As summer comes near, we hope our readers will see volunteerism as another regular activity to do with our kids, and other friends and family. All we need is ourselves. Start by thinking about what drives us, whether that be animals, hunger, children, the arts, education, the environment and so on. Once we establish that, volunteering for a dedicated cause will connect us with other like-minded neighbors, another added benefit to signing up to volunteer.

We hope readers will consider the benefits we have outlined as to exactly what volunteering affords us. We look forward to the possibility of sharing the stories of generous volunteers, old and new.

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White great pyrenese dog walking along path

By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

I want to talk about dog poop.

I don’t intend to describe it, compare notes, or ponder the meaning of bending over after our dogs relieve themselves to take their excrement and dump it in our garbage cans or, perhaps, to ship it to Mars so Matt Damon will have fertilizer for a crop of potatoes.

It’s the whole picking up of the steaming logs that I’d like to address.

You see, the other day, my son and I took our 95-pound dog for a walk. Yes, bigger dogs make larger and, often, smellier poops. I know because I’ve walked smaller dogs recently and am amazed at the delicate little pebbles they gingerly push out of their smaller digestive systems.

So, there we were, the three of us, on our happy stroll, with my dog smelling everything and nothing and my son and I talking about, shocker, sports!

My dog did his thing. At that point, I reflexively leaped into action, opening a small plastic bag that I turned inside out so I didn’t have to come into contact with, you know, it.

I bagged it up, the way I always do, tied the bag twice, as is also a part of the routine, and gently lay the bag near a tree, preparing, as I have for the last five years, to retrieve the bag on my return trip.

That’s when a bald, angry, younger man honked at me from his car and threw out his hands in a frustrated “are-you-kidding-me-right-now” pose.

I shrugged and kept walking because other people’s anger, particularly when I don’t feel responsible for it, isn’t about me.

But the gentleman didn’t leave well enough alone. He circled around and found my son, my dog and me, rolled down his angry window and demanded to know if I was planning to pick up the poop.

“Yes, of course,” I said. “I’ve been walking him for five years, and I pick it up every time.”

My son seemed more than a bit amused.

“Are you the dog poop police?” he asked.

“Yes,” the man in the pickup truck replied without a touch of irony.

“Can I see your badge?” my son asked.

This was heading in the wrong direction.

“I hate it when people leave their dog’s poop all over the neighborhood,” the gentleman, who was coming across as anything but gentle, said. “Are you sure you’re going to pick it up?”

“Yes,” I said. “I always do.”

“Do people leave poop everywhere?” my son asked.

“Yes, they do,” the man said.

The stare down lasted another few minutes. Why, I thought later, would I bother to bag up his poop as if it were a holiday present if I intended to leave it? Wouldn’t I continue walking, ignoring the doggy remains of his dinner?

The man drove off. No, he didn’t spin his tires. When I picked up the bag, I looked around to see if he was hiding, waiting to catch me in a dog-faced lie.

Alas, despite the numerous pickup trucks that sped by, none looked like his truck or had his scowl leaning out of the window.

We sure are an angry and confrontational society these days, aren’t we? This man took time out of his day to confront me about a bag of poop.

I guess the good news is that he’s protecting us from dog poop scofflaws. The sad part, however, is that he figured I was prepared to bag it up and leave it behind. He didn’t know me and quickly assumed the worst.

I wonder if he feels the same level of concern for, say, the wrappers people toss out of their car windows. Does he knock on car doors to ask people sitting with their engines on to turn them off so they don’t pollute the air?

Now, that’s an idea that makes sense to me. Then again, the dog poop patrol probably made sense to him. If my dog had any idea what was happening, he’d have quite a tale to share with his canine companions.

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Prom Night. METRO photo

By Leah S. Dunaief

Leah Dunaief

Prom season has arrived. It’s that wonderful, fairy tale time when Cinderella goes to the ball. It’s when fathers suddenly realize that their daughters, beautifully gowned, have now grown up. And mothers are proud to see their tuxedo-wearing sons have become men. The hairstyles, manicures and pedicures are in place, the dress has been selected, the shoes to match, the dangling earrings, the special makeup and perfume—the scene has been set. The tuxes are rented, the flowers selected, the shoes polished, the cummerbunds and bow ties fastened, the haircuts fresh, and they pose for the cameras.  Boys and girls, now ladies and gentlemen, go off in their borrowed or leased coaches for a night of celebratory fun to memories they will create for the rest of their lives. It is a coming-of-age moment.

It is the magical Senior Prom.

There can be a darker side to this brilliant affair. Decades ago, shortly after we started the first newspaper in 1976, prom nights ended with a string of terrible car accidents caused by drunken driving. It was a time when MADD was founded — Mothers Against Drunk Driving. This non-profit organization “seeks to stop drunk driving, support those affected by drunk driving, prevent underage drinking and strive for stricter impaired driving policy, whether that impairment is caused by alcohol or any other drug.” It was a movement founded out of grief by those who had lost their children to horrible accidents. Today, more than 40 years later, there is at least one MADD office in every state.

We, at the newspaper, responded to the crisis on a local level. We wrote a short paragraph pledging that the signer of this petition would think about safety on prom night and not drive drunk. We then placed those words at the top of a sheet of yellow lined paper, carried the pads up to Ward Melville High School toward the end of June, waited outside until an assembly involving the senior class had ended, and asked the seniors as they emerged from the hall to sign on the lines. In return, we promised to reprint that page in the newspaper with their signatures just as they wrote them.

We didn’t know how they would react, of course, whether they would laugh us off and continue to the exit or otherwise ignore us. But they didn’t do either of those. Instead, they lined up to sign. And we wound up, as I recall, with five legal pad pages of signatures. We printed the pages, just as we promised, each full page as a page in the newspaper. That year, there were no accidents.

Not long after, Dorothy Melville, widow of the late philanthropist, called our office and invited me to breakfast at her home in Old Field the next day. I appeared on her doorstep at the appointed time, not a little curious. She greeted me at the kitchen door with a big smile, showed me to a kitchen chair, asked me how I liked my eggs, donned an apron and proceeded to cook. 

When we finished, she stood up, left the room, then returned with her checkbook. She explained how important it was to combat drunk driving, especially among young people who thought driving buzzed was “cool.” She then wrote out a check to The Village Times and smiled as she handed it to me.

“I want you to use the interest from this money to finance those signature pages of students pledging not to drive drunk every year at prom time.”

I looked at the check and was amazed. It was for the sum of $10,000. In today’s money, that would be somewhere between $60,000-$70,000. I stammered my thanks and said something idiotic like, “Can you really do this?” She smiled and nodded, and I left the kitchen.

For years after, we repeated the project. There were no more local car accidents on prom night. Some 45 years later, we ask the same.

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