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Between You and Me

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By Leah S. Dunaief

Leah Dunaief

An advertiser was chatting with me the other day and mentioned that he was going down to South Carolina for his father’s surprise 80th birthday. “It’s going to be a surprise for him?” I asked, clenching my teeth. “Totally,” he said with a big smile. “My brother and his wife and children are coming from St. Louis, my sister and her family from Denver, nieces and nephews from California. We haven’t been together like that in a long time.” 

I was quiet. “What’s wrong?” he asked, noticing the pause. “Oh, it sounds wonderful to be with family and at such a terrific occasion,” I answered. “But …” 

“Yes?” he encouraged. “May I tell you a quick story?” I asked. He nodded. I proceeded to share the following.

We were once invited to a surprise birthday party that a good friend was giving for her husband. She left the basement door open for us all to gather while the couple finished dinner upstairs. After some minutes, she quietly slinked down the carpeted stairs, and in a stage whisper told us that her husband had fallen asleep on the sofa, so she was going to call to him to come down. When he did, she suggested, we could then yell “Surprise!” She also had some sparklers that she would set off as he began his descent. There were probably 30 of us in the basement, and we eagerly agreed.

“Honey!” she yelled. Then louder, “Honey!!!”

“Uh, what?” came the groggy response.

“Come downstairs! Now!”

“Coming!” he yelled back, and as we readied ourselves, we could hear his footsteps above rushing to the stairs. The sparklers started to go off. Then there was a thud. Another thud. And to our growing horror, we realized he was falling down the steps. We waited helplessly until he landed in full view on his bottom, his trousers around his ankles. Someone weakly yelled “surprise.”

He slowly looked around his basement at all our faces, as the last of the sparklers subsided, then at his wife. who seemed suddenly stricken.

“What the hell….?”  He had opened his pants belt and top button after a sumptuous birthday dinner, and when he jumped up from the couch, they had dropped to his feet, tripping him as he reached the head of the stairs.

It was at this point that my husband leaned over and whispered in my ear, “Promise you will NEVER make me a surprise party!”

Our friend did survive his unexpected celebration and went on to enjoy many more unsurprising birthday parties, but then he was only 40 at the time. Imagine if he had been 80.

Then again, I give further evidence that surprise parties can boomerang even at a younger age. My middle son was turning 16, and a couple of his friends secretly came to me to ask if they could stage a surprise party at our house. I enthusiastically joined in the plot. They would leave school early and beat my son home. Quickly they would decorate the living room, which was not immediately observable from the entryway and hide there until he arrived, ready to greet him.

All went according to plan. My son came in the door, said “hello,” dropped his heavy backpack on the floor and continued into the house. His buddies jumped out from the living room doorway as he walked past and yelled “Surprise!” at the top of their lungs.

He stopped in his tracks, turned pale, teetered for a moment, then ran for the bathroom sink and threw up. It definitely put a damper on the occasion.

The advertiser had listened to my stories, then said he would prepare his father somewhat by telling him that something nice was going to happen shortly. It wouldn’t exactly ruin the surprise but would relieve a little of the shock. I look forward to hearing how it all went.

Pixabay photo

By Leah S. Dunaief

Leah Dunaief

Intuitively we know that our behavior changed in just about every way during the unprecedented events of last year. The American Time Use Survey, a responsibility of the U.S. Bureau of Labor Statistics, asks thousands of people annually to record how they spend their daily minutes, and they came up with some research to back up our intuition on how we adapted to COVID-19 in 2020. The New York Times covered the story last Thursday, breaking out a number of categories for comparison.

As far as non-work and non-school time, the data was divided into sleeping; watching TV, movies or videos; playing games; cooking; doing housework; grooming; exercising; and texting, phone calls and video chats. It was further broken down by demographic groups: 15-24; 25-44; 45-64; and 65+. As far as sleeping goes, all the age groups slept more, with those 25-44 and 45-64 getting the most rest and both the 15-24 and the 65+ cohorts having the smallest increases. That makes sense to me because those getting more sleep are probably the primary workforce. The ones who did not have to commute as much and could sleep a little later.

The 45-64 and the 15-24 groups also spent the most extra time watching TV, movies and videos, about 25 minutes more per day. Yay for Netflix and the other streaming services who introduced us to binging. By far and away the most increase playing games was among the 15-24 folks, averaging 24 more minutes a day.  Mostly all four groups didn’t change much in the amount of cooking they did, but while the others increased slightly, the 15-24 category decreased six minutes a day.

Doing housework wasn’t much different from 2019, with the oldest category completely unchanged.

So what went down? Are you surprised to know it was grooming? The others dropped from four to seven minutes a day, but the youngest members increased four-tenths of a minute. Exercising increased four to five minutes, except for the oldest set, who decreased their exercising by five minutes daily. And everybody spent more time texting, phoning and participating in video chats, with the youngest crowd up eight minutes a day.

Last year was a difficult time for those forced to be alone. The survey tracks people during waking hours by how much time spent with people outside the household, with household members only and with those alone. The numbers for time with outsiders sank to one hour and 33 minutes less a day, while for household members, the amount rose by 31 minutes. The amount of alone time rose 57 minutes on average out of an eight-hour day. Remember all these numbers measure increases, not absolute time. For those in nursing homes, for example, who were unable to receive visitors, it was a miserably lonely year. And socializing among children was severely limited.

The greatest disruption caused by the coronavirus was in the lives of parents. With schools closed, parents became homeschoolers, particularly for children in elementary school. This burden could be in addition to working on a job from home and it affected women more than men because in most cases they carry the greater responsibility for child care. Sometimes it forced women to quit their jobs. Single mothers were particularly disrupted by the situation.

The nature of work also changed. For starters, in 2019, only one in seven people worked remotely. Last year it was one in three. And the changes laid bare disparities among workers.  Hispanic workers were more likely to lose their jobs. Black workers were most often required to go to their jobs in person, thus being more exposed to infection. White and Asian workers were often able to work from home.

There were also stark differences depending on educational levels. Those with graduate and professional degrees generally spent more hours last year working from home than in the office. Those with a high school diploma or less were often considered “essential workers” and had to function in person in the workplace, 

Will this data cause change in the future?

METRO photo

By Leah S. Dunaief

Leah Dunaief

At this time of renewed attention to COVID-19, I recommend escapism. I have managed it, and this is how I did it. I immersed myself in two books, one after the other. They weren’t great classics, just hand-me-downs from a person whose reading tastes I respect. He gave me both books, and like a magic carpet ride, they took me to a different time and place with interesting characters for travel companions.

I enjoy historical fiction, and interestingly enough, both books use the siege of Leningrad by the Nazis during World War II as a critical context for their plots. Although we are being laid siege today by a malevolent virus, that act of war almost exactly 80 years ago was far different. Hitler wanted to bomb the city into oblivion, believing that Eastern Europeans were worthless, and survivors were to be starved to death. The German army was under orders not to accept any truce offer that might be extended to them by the city leadership. The siege began on Sept. 8, 1941, and ended, after 872 days of torment, on Jan. 27, 1944. The pre-war population of about two and a half million was reduced at the end to about 800,000 by extreme famine, disease and artillery strikes, one of the most destructive blockades in history. To make matters even worse, that first winter saw temperatures plummet as low as – 40 degrees. The dead piled up in the streets. There were even instances of cannibalism. The survivors were marked forever.

This is a major catalyst of the first book, “Winter Garden,” by best-selling author, Kristin Hannah. It is the story of the relationship between a mother and her two daughters, and between the daughters themselves, that bears the aftereffects of what has been termed by historians as attempted genocide in Leningrad. Anya is a cold and disapproving mother to her children, and they feel cast out to survive emotionally, each in their own way as they grow up. The glue that holds the family together is the father, and when he becomes terminally ill, the dysfunction of the women is clearly revealed. The writing is dramatic and manages to sustain a heart-rending pathos as the plot builds. I tried to keep a dry eye as I read, but in vain. Each continuing episode tugged at my heart and my tears flowed anew with just about every chapter. The surprise ending is a stunner.

Having barely recovered from Hannah’s epic story, I plowed into “City of Thieves,” by David Benioff. Unlike “Winter Garden,” in which the siege of Leningrad is considered for its profound and intergenerational consequences half a century later, Benioff’s main characters deal with the horror as it is unfolding. Seventeen-year-old Lev and 20-year-old Kolya somehow manage to make this into a coming-of-age story, with some laugh-out-loud dialogue even as they are fighting to survive. But don’t be misled. This account of the tragedy of Leningrad is, if anything, more brutal for its contemporaneous setting. 

The two young men, through a bit of incredible yet somehow acceptable events, are sent off by a Soviet colonel amidst a starving city in search of a dozen eggs. It might as well be the holy grail for Arthurian medieval knights. In the course of the quest, they see and sometimes experience some of the individual terrors of the siege in what Benioff claims is historically accurate fashion. Benioff has delineated the plot according to specifics in Harrison Salisbury’s book, “The 900 Days,” and Curzio Malaparte’s “Kaputt.” 

The latter, a novel published in 1946 by an Italian war correspondent, is about the descent of European civilization on the Eastern Front during World War II, and the former, written in 1969, is by the respected American journalist detailing the definitive story of the prolonged battle. Benioff cites them as sources for his novel.

They were hardly light reading, these two books my friend gave me, but they certainly kept my attention. They also taught me a bit, as good books do.

Pixabay photo

By Leah S. Dunaief

Leah Dunaief

Help. I have a strange problem and to this point can’t find the solution. The man who nicely takes care of our pool said that he removed 600 dead frogs last week. That’s more than the previous week, which yielded more than the week before. The problem is worsening as I write. My neighbor’s pool, according to his estimation, had 2,000 dead frogs, and so on at other houses in the area. I suppose there is some comfort in knowing that others are having the same intrusion, but actually not much. Even as I respect and enjoy nature, I would like to have the pool water for my family and not share it with dead amphibians.

The pool guy suggested I call an exterminator, which I did. I happen to know a competent one, who confessed to me after hearing my story that in his 35 years of being in business, he had never heard of such a predicament. “Call a pool guy,” he suggested. So we are right back to square one. He did kindly offer to call an expert entomologist he knew. I was grateful for the suggestion but I haven’t heard anything back from him as of this writing. 

I tried to think of someone else who might have dealt with this situation before and finally came up with the answer man (and woman) for any questions concerning our house: the good folks at the local hardware store. Ben at Ace Hardware tried hard to think of a method for dealing with hundreds of frogs and after much thought, gave me a mesh screen to tie to the side of the pool and hang into the water. The theory goes like this. The frogs are dying because they can’t get out. Maybe they hatched in the pool, maybe they just jumped in because it has been so hot. Either way, the smooth sides don’t permit them to escape. So if we give them a way to exit, they will leave. At least, that’s the hope. We’ll try that. I like it because it’s nontoxic. 

My son and daughter-in-law looked for a clue to this unprecedented dilemma on Google. They came up with a couple of answers that we will also try. One is to spray the bricks around the pool with white vinegar. Apparently, frogs don’t like vinegar on their feet. Or maybe they don’t like the smell. In any event, we have a gallon of white vinegar and a spray bottle, and we’re going to give it a go. Google also suggested giving the frogs a way out. It even suggested a froggy ladder, which they happened to sell, and we then dutifully bought. Worth a try. 

Other suggestions, with our responses:

Turn off the pool lights. Lights attract insects, which in turn attract frogs, who eat the insects.

We don’t use pool lights. We like the insect-eating part though.

Cover the pool.

We want to use it.

Install fence.

We have a fence with posts widely enough spaced for a squadron of frogs to march through. We could, however, put wooden boards or chicken wire at the base to keep them from hopping in.

Keep lawn mowed and free of weeds and debris.

Already do that. Neighbors will bear witness.

Make own DIY frog repellent.

If vinegar doesn’t work, will try a heavy concentration of saltwater. Or a mixture of bleach and water. Maybe all three.

Sprinkle coffee grounds around the pool. Acid in the coffee can also irritate their feet.

Yuk.

Keep pool water circulating. Frogs don’t like to lay eggs in moving water.

We could do that by keeping the filter going all day and night. It’s an expensive solution, however, because it would require a lot of electricity.

Keep the pool heated.

Ditto.

Keep pool sparkling clean.

We try.

When I was a kid, I dreamt of having a swimming pool. The frogs were not in my dream. It could be worse though. Australia is presently undergoing a plague of mice.

Any help for us?

Pixabay photo

By Leah S. Dunaief

Leah Dunaief

Vacations are wonderful. That’s stating the obvious. But vacationing now, in largely post-pandemic times, brings a special kind of joy. I felt it because I have just come back from vacation with a sense of happiness and peace that I wish I could bottle. And I just happened to read an article that speaks to this very subject, the “rush of a real vacation.” 

Now you might think it’s the result of breaking out after almost a year and a half of pandemic distancing, of masking and zooming and otherwise limiting and isolating ourselves. We did that, these last 10 days, driving up the New England coast slowly and spending quality time in Maine. We certainly enjoyed the freedom of the open road, stopping where we had a notion, taking back country routes on impulse, drinking in those picturesque harbor towns, eating lobster rolls, taking pictures of lighthouses. After relative confinement, that was exhilarating. 

But there was more to the experience than that. The article I read, “There’s a Specific Kind of Joy We’ve Been Missing,” by organizational psychologist Adam Grant in the July 10 issue of The New York Times, talks of collective effervescence. This is a concept introduced in the early 20th century by the sociologist Emile Durkheim describing “the sense of energy and harmony people feel when they come together in a group around a shared purpose.” 

So if you are participating in a brainstorming session with colleagues, enjoying a baseball game or a movie with new seatmates or even chatting with a stranger on a train, there is the joy of connection. That didn’t happen during the dark days of COVID-19, although there was some of that early in NYC when people were clapping and banging pots and pans with spoons at 7 p.m. every night to honor hospital workers. And it didn’t happen on Zoom, where the common response after several meetings was fatigue.

We stopped for dinner one night on the way up the seashore in Portland, where we met with an editor who had worked at The Village Times 30 years ago. She took the ferry over from one of the offshore islands and had a lobster roll with us in DiMillo’s restaurant. That eatery used to be the Martha Jefferson, a Mississippi River paddle cruiser for sightseeing and parties on Port Jefferson harbor more than 50 years ago. The present owners bought the old boat, tidied it up, anchored it permanently at the Portland docks and have over the years turned it into a seafood palace.

We spent three days in Camden, a charming fishing village with loads of tourist stores to wander in and out of, which we didn’t do but did enjoy a sailboat ride in a 36-foot schooner that we shared with a family from Alabama. There were a number of people visiting from the Deep South whom we met and chatted with, several owning summer homes in Maine. They drove the considerable distance, like us, enjoying the liberating journey. I want to salute an especially fine restaurant there, in Rockland, called Primo, started by a woman originally from Long Island, that serves farm-to-table food in delicious fashion. Diners can also tour her lush gardens in the rear. Ask for the Russian kale salad for an unusual treat. And if it’s your thing, enjoy the Farnsworth Art Museum, with its impressive collection of three generations of Wyeths.

We loved our time in Bar Harbor (or as they say, Bah Hahbba), and especially Acadia National Park on Mount Desert Island. If you go, know that you will need a ticket in advance if you wish to see a famed sunrise or a sunset from the summit of Cadillac Mountain.

I have always enjoyed chatting with strangers while waiting in lines or riding in elevators, among other conducive situations. I learn all sorts of information, usually useless but not always, this way. Friends I have been with will bear witness to this voluble habit. I hadn’t realized how much I had missed those casual conversations until this trip. I certainly agree with the theory of collective effervescence put forth by Durkheim a century ago. And we awarded the title of best lobster roll, after many samplings, to McLoons Lobster Shack of South Thomaston, in the friendly state of Maine.

Stock photo

By Leah S. Dunaief

Leah Dunaief

A number of small local businesses applied for and received, in the course of the pandemic, money to pay their employees as their customers and revenues dwindled. Some $800 billion was made available by the federal government through the Paycheck Protection Program, or PPP as it was known for short, and overseen by the Small Business Administration. The actual lenders were banks, 5,200 of them, and they made a small percentage on what they loaned.

But according to an analysis in The New York Times, that was nothing compared to what two newcomers made as they rushed to the scene. These two companies pocketed more than $3 billion in fees, and they weren’t even lenders. It was all legal. Here’s how they did it.

Since the banks were getting a percentage of what they loaned, for each set of paperwork processed, they logically favored making larger loans for their efforts. These invariably went to larger companies. The result was that the smallest companies, asking for the smallest amounts of money, who were perhaps the ones most needing the help, were overlooked. Blueacorn was founded last year to help companies get PPPs. “Tiny businesses, self-employed individuals and minority communities are left out in the cold,” explained the CEO to The NYT.

The federal government realized this discrepancy and, last December, raised the fees for small loans, later encouraging even unprofitable solo businesses to ask for help. Both Blueacorn and the second company, Womply, which already existed but in a different niche, rushed to advertise their processing services with the PPP on behalf of these tiny businesses. Their ads were on New York City subways, billboards and Facebook, according to NYT reporters Stacy Cowley and Ella Koeze, offering “free money for those who qualify.” During that time, from late February to May 31, the companies processed 2.3 million loans, with most less than $17,000, and then turned them over to banks. 

Those interested banks, now promised by the government 50% of loans valued at less than $50,000, with fees up to a maximum of $2,500, could find making small-dollar loans more profitable. At least that was the intent of Congress in December of last year when it made the change.

For Blueacorn, in Scottsdale, Arizona, and Womply, in San Francisco, finding the banks, putting them together with the borrowers and doing their paperwork in a standardized way, proved more profitable than for each of the banks to do the work themselves on behalf of the smallest businesses. Now all the lenders had to do was pass the paperwork to the government and fund the loans.

Largely as a result of these two companies, lenders made 5.8 million loans this year as opposed to 3.6 million in 2020. The average loan size dropped from over $100,000 dollars last year to $41,560 in 2021. The six most active lenders this year partnered with one or both of those companies. 

Blueacorn worked with just two lenders: Prestamos CDFI, a non-profit, and Capital Plus Financial. Just for contrast, Prestamos made 935 PPP loans last year, totaling $27 million and 494,415 loans for $7.7 billion in 2021, according to The NYT, until applications halted.

Womply used 17 lenders and processed 1.4 million loans, totaling more than $20 billion dollars, some 7% of PPP money loaned this year.

Here is the payoff for the two companies. Because Congress wanted to make smaller loans more lucrative, Prestamos made $1.3 million for its lending last year and $1.2 billion this year, but will keep “only a fraction of its earnings.” Blueacorn, because if its agreement with Prestamos, will get a “significant” portion of the $1.2 billion Prestamos is collecting. Capital One Financial, a public company and thus more transparent, earned $464 million in fees for its PPP loans during the quarter but only kept about a third or $150 million.

So Blueacorn gets some $1 billion this year and Womply anywhere from $1.7 billion to $3 billion. That dwarfs any other PPP loans or fees. Thank You, Uncle Sam! 

Pixabay photo

By Leah S. Dunaief

Leah Dunaief

A three-year-old golden retriever, missing for two weeks, was pulled out of Barnegat Bay Wednesday by two blessed souls. I know how that golden feels. I was pulled out of Port Jefferson Harbor Sunday and was I ever grateful.

I’ll tell you the whole story.

My family is visiting, finally, as the pandemic fades. That includes three sons, three daughters-in-law, one granddaughter, two grandsons, (the third was working), one dog and two cats. Sunday late afternoon we noted the arrival of what sailors call “the cocktail breeze,” and to enjoy it, three of us went out in the harbor on a 16-foot Hobie Cat. The catamaran is little more than two pontoons connected by a sturdy webbing on which passengers sit. There is a mainsail and a jib, and the light craft really flies across the water. But there is no motor, only an oar in case the wind dies down, and we have to row ourselves back to shore-hardly a desirable state of affairs, as you can imagine.

So, there we were, happily zipping along, when the breeze turned into a sudden gust, caught us off guard, and lifted one pontoon out of the water. I was sitting above the other, and I saw the colorful mainsail rising up like a wall and coming toward me. The abrupt knot in the pit of my stomach confirmed that we were about to capsize. That had never before happened with this boat. I braced for a shock.

To my pleasant surprise, the water temperature, while not warm, was more comfortable than I expected for so early in the season. And while I was wearing a life vest, I had casually closed only the top couple of toggles, so the vest rode up to the level of my chin, pinning the edge of my broad-brimmed hat that had come askew in front of my eyes. While I knew I was in the water, I couldn’t see a thing.

It took us several minutes to sort ourselves out, my son, daughter-law and myself. We worked to untangle ourselves as we clung to the side of one of the overturned pontoons. Then the boat became caught in a mooring into which the wind had blown us. We hoped one of the two motor boats that came along would stop to help. They passed us by, but one slowed down to take a video of us struggling in the water.

It is hard to right a catamaran, and in the sudden heavy wind, it proved impossible.

“Maybe we should call for help,” my daughter-in-law suggested, and proceeded to do just that.

Fortunately Evelyn and Greg Haegele, in their sailboat aptly named “Necessity” heard us and slowly approached. My children were most concerned with getting me to safety and up the swim ladder that Greg had thrown over the side, my daughter-law helping me swim over to their boat. My son calling out my age with concern in his voice.

It was not easy to climb the six steps in my sopping wet clothes, but as they say at NASA, failure was not an option.

Then Greg passed his sunglasses to his wife and made a beautiful dive to swim over and help right the Hobie. Together they were successful despite the strong wind.

As my children clambered back aboard and sailed off, a police boat, followed by a fire boat dashed after them, checking to see if all was well. It seems some alert person in a waterfront home in Belle Terre, witnessed the mishap and called 911.

Meanwhile the Haegeles took me back to Port Jefferson via the launch service and then drove me home, a drenched dog.

By Leah S. Dunaief

Leah Dunaief

Most of my free time this past weekend I spent reading a little book, something of a page-turner, called “Long Island’s Gold Coast Elite and the Great War.” Doesn’t sound like a riveting read unless you like history and want to know more about what happened on the north shore of the Island from Sands Point to Port Jefferson, and its effect on the rest of the country during World War I.

Life here and in the northeast establishment was different then, epitomized by F. Scott Fitzgerald’s Gold Coast. It was a time of Teddy Roosevelt and Woodrow Wilson, a time of JP Morgan and William Vanderbilt, a time of high society that came from prep schools and Ivy League colleges, white-shoe law firms and Wall Street financiers. It was guardedly Anglo-Saxon and Protestant, in which members married each other and lived in over 1000 high-end, architecturally distinguished country homes that boasted large swaths of land and gardens. It featured a privileged existence that ended with the Great Depression, followed by the Second World War.

This highly influential concentration of those with money and power, though not so numerous in population, played an outsized role in nudging the country into WWI, and Richard F. Welch, the author of the well-researched book, tells us how. Why did the prominent residents want the nation to enter the war, and not just enter but to do so decidedly on the side of the Allies?

Welch offers the following reasons.

The first was money. Almost immediately after the outbreak of war, in 1914, JP Morgan & Sons was designated by Britain as the United Kingdom’s official agent for procurement in the United States. That meant exporting food, drugs and especially munitions to the U.K. The fact that Britain controlled the sea lanes provided practical encouragement. It got to the point where the bank’s activities interfered with the nation’s official policy of neutrality. 

The Morgan bank also spearheaded funding for the Allied war effort that enabled purchases from the United States, despite the fact that the Wilson administration opposed loans for any of the belligerents. The bank evaded these sentiments by labeling loans as “bank credits.” And of course, the Morgan bank received commissions for these services that ultimately netted them $30 million. Wilson was stymied in his attempt at proposing a peace agreement that he calculated would bring the financially strapped Allies to the negotiating table. Only Germany’s unwitting launch of unrestricted submarine warfare on all supply ships, (some carrying passengers), which enflamed America, caused a reversal of the administration’s loans opposition.

Further, “there was an instinctive sense of class and ethnic solidarity—both inbred and learned—which affected virtually all the major players in the New York financial and business world and underlay the calculations in most government decisions,” writes Welch. Many of the men were descended from British stock, perhaps had British spouses and basically absorbed from the same syllabuses an “Eurocentric and assumed imperialism by the white western powers, domestically and internationally, as both normal and positive,” according to Welch. They socialized with each other, lived near each other, worked with each other and saw themselves as the country’s elite, strategically located at the heart of the nation’s economy. 

And they saw America’s future, aligned with that of the U.K., as a burgeoning world power. This was certainly being proselytized by Teddy Roosevelt, Henry Cabot Lodge and those around them, “who envisioned America as the new global power—playing Rome to Britain’s Greece.” 

And that was well before the phrase “special relationship” was hatched, “the belief that shared language, basic political principles and common international objectives bind the United States and Britain together.”

It’s a fascinating scenario that Welch puts forth, and not being a credentialed historian, I cannot comment on its validity. But I can attest to the social and cultural tone of Manhattan in the 1940s through ‘60s as being faithfully portrayed. It was indeed a different world, of which even as a child, I was aware.

Pixabay photo

By Leah S. Dunaief

Leah Dunaief

Here we go again. I have had another encounter with a tick, but this time, to make the story more interesting, the villain is a white tick. At least it can appear white when it is engorged with blood. My blood. Just the thought of it is enough to make one’s skin crawl, right? 

Well, it’s tick season particularly now, and you don’t have to go into the woods to find them. They can be in the beautiful lawn at your house or in the bushes that you brush against when you take out the garbage. Unless you are wearing long pants that are tucked into your socks and a long sleeve shirt and hat, you could be a victim. More likely, your dog could appear to a tick as a delicious steak on four legs, and if bitten, the dog can inadvertently carry the tick into your home. I think the white tick found me as I was sitting on the cement edge of a pool and wearing just shorts and a short sleeve shirt in the recent 90-degree weather. (Chicken that I am, I found the water still too cold to jump in.)

We all know that ticks can carry Lyme disease. But there are other diseases that could potentially be transmitted through their bite. Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever is another, and despite its geographical designation, this malady can occur throughout the United States and yes, even on Long Island. A local  internist I know tells me he has seen several cases in the course of his practice. 

RSMF, as it is sometimes referred to, is a bacterial disease that typically begins with a fever and fierce headache. A few days later a rash develops, made up of small spots usually starting on the wrists and ankles. Other symptoms may include muscle pains and vomiting.

To my surprise, when I had routine blood work done for an annual check-up a couple of years ago, I discovered that I had indeed had RSMF from that previous tick bite but with no symptoms.

Asymptomatic versions do indeed occur, and I was one such example. Now I have again been bitten, and the question is whether I could get the disease again, if the tick carried RSMF, or if I have antibodies sufficient enough to make me immune. Then again, I cannot be sure that this recent tick did not carry Lyme disease or some other microbial agent of infection.

What to do?

It never helps to have a medical problem on a weekend. I apparently was bitten on Saturday afternoon and found the tick behind my right knee on awakening Sunday morning. My hand was drawn to it because of a severe itch. At first, because it was small and white, we thought it was a skin tab that had spontaneously appeared. But upon pulling, it came off and began crawling away. Since I had experience with a tick bite before, I knew to capture the tick in a plastic sandwich baggie and save for the physician to send for testing.

As the day progressed, I could feel a tiny lump where I had been bitten, and the area around the lump became red and warm, with the same intense itch that had originally drawn my attention. By Tuesday, I had an appointment with my physician, and I had more than only the tick to show him. The red area had increased from the size of a silver dollar to that of my palm. I am now taking doxycycline, the antibiotic of choice, as well as an antihistamine for what is probably an allergic reaction.

I share this with you as a cautionary tale to urge you to check yourselves daily for ticks that might have targeted you as a good meal. And further, don’t just assume a tick on you will be black and therefore readily spotted. Take heed from my experience. They can also be white.

Graduation(Darin Reed photo.)

By Leah S. Dunaief

Leah Dunaief

Congratulations are in order for this past weekend’s activities. First and most importantly, my youngest grandchild graduated from high school last Friday. What a lovely milestone for him, one not to be missed by us. 

We decided to drive there, the 11-hour trip notwithstanding, rather than deal with the inevitable crowds and COVID risks and restrictions at the airport. But so much more had to be factored into our plans. Why, I wondered, would a school arrange for graduation during Memorial Day weekend? This was an especially puzzling question as reports were warning of major travel activity by car and plane. Over 37 million people were expected to venture more than 50 miles away from home, a 60% increase above last year, with a big post-pandemic breakout looming.

Clearly this situation called for some careful strategizing. First we called and secured reservations at a hotel near the school. This was going to be more than a one-day trip. That was the easiest part. Then we decided to start right after work on Tuesday evening since that would probably beat the traffic leaving the Island for the weekend. We would drive as far as we could before stopping at a roadside lodging for the night, which we figured would give us a good head start on the trip for the following day.

Next we thought to pick up some sandwiches for dinner in the car on our way out of town. We ordered those in advance, as well as the much loved chocolate chip cookies from the local bakery to bring my family. And we would stop for a package that a friend, who lives near my grandson, requested we bring to her.

We followed the plan.

After five hours of night driving with blissfully no traffic, we saw a sign for a familiar hotel at the next exit and drove off the highway feeling quite ready for a good sleep. Our first problem was that, in our haze, we couldn’t immediately find the hotel. After a bit of exploring and a U-turn, we did and pulled into a parking lot that looked ominously full. When we tried the front door, it was locked.

Fortunately, as we stood there in a fatigued stupor, a worker at the hotel came along and opened the door for us. She then called to the clerk behind the front desk, who had appeared from nowhere, and who told us what we feared: no rooms available. She directed us to the next hotel down the highway.

“But wait,” the first worker said as she scooted around behind the desk, “let me look at the register.” After several minutes, she found an unfulfilled reservation for a room on the fourth floor and offered it to us. Relief!

The next day, we happily arrived at our destination by mid-afternoon. I don’t have to tell you how wonderful it was to come together with family we had not seen in over a year, to hug them and note how the children had grown, and talk with them in person for hours. Thursday, other members of the extended family arrived, everyone in a happy mood, and Friday, under a beautiful blue sky, we all went to the commencement and cheered mightily as our grandson walked on stage, shook the president’s hand and received his sheepskin. 

We, of course, celebrated the rest of the day and well into the evening. It felt a little unreal to be casually chatting together after the year of pandemic isolation, something we would otherwise, in earlier times, so taken for granted.

Now came the tricky part: when to leave for the drive home through the midst of the holiday weekend. We had decided on Saturday, hoping that was a good travel day, when most people would already have gotten to their destinations and before they would have started to return. Picking up some provisions for the car ride, we filled the gas tank and left in the morning for home. There was never any serious traffic along the route. Score one for strategy, another for luck. And another for appreciation and gratitude for all that we would have simply accepted pre-pathogen as our due.