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Between You and Me

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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Pixabay photo

By Leah S. Dunaief

Leah Dunaief

Probably because of COVID-19, there has been more discussion in the media about depression, anxiety and mental health in general. CVS, the nation’s largest retail pharmacy, and the one owned by the Melville Corporation, (the company started by local philanthropist Ward Melville by the way) is creating a new niche for its many stores. It has been hiring licensed clinical social workers for a pilot project in several cities and will offer walk-in sessions or by appointment. 

The social workers are trained in cognitive behavior therapy or CBT. I believe that is generally a form of short term therapy in which the immediate problem is discussed and treated using evidence-based techniques. According to an article in The New York Times, May 10, social workers will offer assessments, referrals and counseling. They will be available during the day and also on evenings and weekends, and also by telemedicine. They will partner with the company’s nurse practitioners and pharmacists for prescriptions when needed.  This will be yet another nonemergency health care service the chain is providing, as they have most recently offered coronavirus vaccines for the public.

Now others beside pharmacies like Rite Aid and Walgreens, who are also planning mental health care, are seeing opportunity in the health field. Albertsons, a grocery chain, offers injectable antipsychotic drugs as well as injectable medication to help treat substance abuse. And a while ago, I got my first shingles vaccine in a drug store.

What a change from the pharmacy of my childhood. I well remember walking down to the drug store five blocks away in New York City with my dad, before I was even of elementary school age, to buy ice cream. That was the only place with a freezer, and the selections were Breyer’s vanilla, or chocolate, or vanilla, chocolate and strawberry together in half gallon containers. They were in a freezer chest, like a foot locker, and when I leaned in to pick the selection, the cold took my breath away. The pharmacy also had a counter where we could sit and get sundaes and milkshakes. But most of the time, we carried the ice cream carton home, hurriedly so it wouldn’t melt, to eat together with the rest of the family.

Another recent focus in the mental health field is on food. And sadly the foods we typically turn to when we are stressed, inevitably sugar-laden and of high fat like ice cream, pastries, pizza and hamburgers, now are on the mental wellness bad list. Nutritional psychiatry is an emerging field which looks at the relationship between diet and mental health. The idea that what we eat can affect our physical health is an accepted one, and now the same concept is extended to our mental wellbeing with the following physiological specifics thanks to research. 

“A healthy diet promotes a healthy gut, which communicates with the brain through what is known as the gut-brain axis. Microbes in the gut produce neurotransmitters like serotonin and dopamine, which regulate our mood and emotions, and the gut microbiome has been implicated in mental health outcomes,” states The New York Times in a May 18 article by Anahad O’Connor.

People who eat a lot of nutrient-dense foods, like fruits and vegetables “report less depression and greater levels of happiness and mental well-being,” according to the NYT.

There is a bit of a chicken-egg conundrum here concerning which comes first? Do anxiety and depression drive people to eat unhealthy foods or are those who are happy and optimistic more likely to choose nutritious foods that further brighten their moods? Recent research has borne out that healthy foods do improve moods.

“Seafood, greens, nuts and beans — and a little dark chocolate” is the basic dietary advice of Dr. Drew Ramsey, a psychiatrist and assistant clinical professor at Columbia University College of Physicians and Surgeons. His jingle comes with the message that food can be empowering.

*This article was revised on June 1, 2021.

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TBR News Media

By Leah S. Dunaief

Leah Dunaief

Incredible as it seems to us, we are celebrating with a special section this week the 45th anniversary of our newspaper and media group now called TBR. Where did those 45 years go?

When we reconstruct the events of both the news and behind the scenes at the newspapers over those 2340 issues, we have a chronicle of the passing time between the first edition of The Village Times and today. In this week’s issue, you will find, in a highly abridged fashion, our attempt to do just that.  We hope it brings back good memories for you because, if you have lived here during any of that time, it bears witness to what was happening around you as well.

For me the section puts into tangible form the extraordinary work of so many dedicated and talented people who have worked at the paper to gather and present the news in a balanced and cogent fashion. Some of the news has been of happy events: our children’s academic and extracurricular triumphs, our neighbors’ efforts enriching our villages through their civic, political and artistic involvement, the interesting lives we have been able to highlight, our shared history, the businesses and what they had to offer in their ads. Some of what we have printed is of necessity not happy stories. But always all the individual issues defined and held together our hometown. It has been said that what marks the boundaries of a community are its school district and the local newspaper.

Newspapers and other media are more than their reporters and editors. Almost all publications, whether print or digital, have basically the same structure: five departments. Those are editorial, advertising, art and production, business and distribution. Some of the departments are supportive of others, but I can tell you emphatically that all, with their different staffers’ skills, are vitally important and must function in tandem in order to produce the final product.

Many of our staffers have gone on to larger media companies and distinguished themselves on a bigger stage. Sometimes they come back for nostalgic visits and to let us know how they are doing. We are proud of them. Hometown papers and digital platforms are often stepping stones that provide experience and hone skills in the communications industry. But I believe none of those larger arenas is more important than the local papers, where we have to meet and answer to our readers and advertisers in the supermarkets and at the ballfields. And while there are many larger media that carry the national and international news, there are only the local newspapers and websites that tell what’s happening and what’s relevant in our daily lives.

This past year with civic unrest, and with COVID-19, has been particularly difficult for readers and business people alike. It has also been difficult for our staff. With small businesses and their advertising, the main source of our revenues and business model falling by the wayside as residents remained in lockdown, we have had to innovate repeatedly in order to survive. We were forced to reduce the number of employees, and those that remain have taken on more responsibilities even as their hours have been cut. It would have been easier to close down and wait for the pandemic to pass, but we couldn’t do that. We are essential workers, keeping our readers informed of vital information about the disease and the responses of our health systems, our educators and our government. We also needed to let people know where to buy food and supplies when so much of routine commerce had shuttered.

How were people coping, what organizations needed help, where would volunteer efforts be most needed, were all critical facts to know for our combined survival, and we had to come in to work and go out amidst the virus and the protests to gather and then communicate the news. We also were able to reassure with our coverage that ordinary life was continuing, despite the hardships.

On this occasion, when we briefly shine the spotlight on ourselves, I want to salute, among all the essential workers, the brave and committed staff of TBR. THANK YOU.

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Mockingbird. Photo from Unsplash

By Leah S. Dunaief

Leah Dunaief

This is the time of year when our five senses go into overdrive. Let me enumerate. In no particular order of delight, I’ll start with sound.

The birdsong is sometimes loud enough to provide dance music at a wedding. There are all kinds of musical bars put forth: crooning, warbling, shrieking, hooting, gurgling. There is an incredible range of notes, from high soprano and countertenor to tenor and baritone, even bass. Sometimes the birds seem to be singing in a chorus, other times at counterpoint. If your bedroom window is open, they can wake you up at first light. There can be many birds in the trees or there may just be one mockingbird pretending to be an entire flock. 

The sight of the birds is as much a treat as the sounds, if you can spot them among the leaves. They can range from a nondescript small brown chick, who nonetheless utters the most melodious songs, to crimson or orange-breasted or blue-tailed or grandly multi-colored varieties of different sizes and shapes that perch briefly on the porch railing or snack on the front lawn. They can seem the model of purpose as they deliver food to the open beaks of their newly hatched offspring or of patience as they sit quietly atop the eggs and wait for the next generation to appear.

Speaking of sight, we go from the early purple of crocuses and joyful yellow of forsythia and daffodils to the lush pink of dogwood and cherry blossoms to the deep red of tulips and azaleas. All of that artwork is provided against a bright green backdrop of new leaves on the bushes and luxuriant attire for the tree limbs. Branches on either side of the road unite in the air overhead, creating sun-dappled tunnels as we drive the back-way routes.

The waves at the beaches are calm now, climbing the sand with rhythmic whispers, and the seagulls fly low, looking for a fish dinner in the clear blue water. Too soon, there will be motor boats and jet skis on the harbors and lawn mowers and leaf blowers keeping the landscape orderly — but not yet. The magic and peace of early spring are still, however briefly, with us to be treasured.

The smells at the beach of salt in the air and blossom-scent on the breezes are intoxicating harbingers of the season. Lilacs, that always know when it is Mother’s Day, perfume the neighborhood. And among us humans, there are always those early-bird few who fire up the grill and begin to barbeque on a sunny weekend afternoon. If we play our cards right, we might be invited to share in this primitive treat. The taste is so much better than anything cooked indoors.

Taste is tantalized by early fresh fruit, like locally grown strawberries, and by vegetables like baby asparagus and snow peas. Several different kinds of dark green lettuces are also ready for dining early in the spring.

As for touch, there is the sweetness of a gentle breeze, reduced on a rare spring day from a stern wind to a caress against the cheek. It carries with it the promise of a summer day and the seduction of a summer night.

Add to all of that, the temperature in spring can reach a universally perfect range. Now I know some people like it hot, really hot, even up in the 90s when they can happily sweat. And some people like it cold, even freezing, during which time they can feel energized and stimulated to ski and ice skate. But all humans feel comfortable moving about in a temperature of 75 degrees. Knowing that could be found most months in San Diego almost prompted my husband and me to move there some 50 years ago. Of course, there were other things to consider, and we ultimately moved to Long Island.

Not for a moment do I have any regrets. My five senses are glad we live here.

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Photo from Pixabay

By Leah S. Dunaief

Leah Dunaief

Strange as it may seem, I always wanted to be a mother. Even before I was in elementary school, I remember hoping someday to be a mother. Thinking back on my early years, I was really more of a tomboy, playing stoop ball and stick ball on the block with the other kids. I did have one doll that I loved. It was quite a progressive doll for its time. I could give it a bottle, and it would subsequently pee. My mother would make sure the baby bottle that had come with the doll was filled with water and not milk. But other than that, I wasn’t particularly given to imaginative girly games like playing house or cooking. I just knew that when I grew up, I wanted to be, among other pursuits, a mother. The idea, of loving a child, teaching a child, nurturing a child, made me happy.

Then I grew up, married a man who also loved the prospect of having a child, and in a short time, we had three. That is, we had three boys within four years and two days. Ever hear the old adage, be careful what you wish for? On the one hand, I adored my boys. I fed them, bathed them, dressed them, played with them and hugged them a lot. On the other hand, I well remember a moment when I sat at the kitchen table, my head down on the crook of my arm, and cried. The three of them were screaming “Mommy!” and chasing each other around my legs with two of them needing diapers changed at the same time. There were dishes in the sink, the next batch of dirty laundry was behind me in a pile, waiting to be put into the overworked washing machine, I had not had a chance yet to change out of my nightgown, and I was seriously doubting I would ever get out of the kitchen alive. This from someone who was never much for crying except in sad movies.

They were exceptionally good communicators. I was convinced that they caucused every night before bedtime and arranged for each to wake me up during the night with a loud scream at a different time. One of my neighbors, catching sight of me putting out the garbage one morning, commented to another neighbor that he had never seen anyone look so tired. Yup, that was me.

But then there was the other side of the experience. They got a little older, made friends who, it seemed, always lived at the farthest reaches of the district, and of course I drove them frequently to play dates. It gave me a chance to meet lots of other mothers. I drove them to weekly music lessons, which enabled them to join the school bands and orchestras. We proudly attended their initially cacophonous concerts that over the years turned into remarkably good classical music and jazz performances. They played baseball, joined the swim team and the tennis team, and we thoroughly enjoyed cheering each at bat, each match, each meet, even if we sometimes melted in the heat or froze in the cold.

Their academic efforts gave us great satisfaction. They studied diligently and sometimes won contests and awards, which gave us vicarious joy. Of less satisfaction would be a trip to meet with the teacher for discussion of any less than perfect behavior.

Then it was prom time. And suddenly, for it seemed sudden, they stood before us in tuxedos, with young women on their arms who they were squiring to the dance. They were all grown up. It was the signal that they would shortly be leaving, eagerly leaving the nest and their parents behind. Yes, they came back regularly from college to have their laundry done and for some good meals. And I like to think for some great hugs. But they were off now, busy with their exciting lives, developing their careers, finding the women they would marry. And the best prize: grandchildren.

How lucky I am that my wish came true.

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METRO photo
Leah Dunaief

By Leah S. Dunaief

Would you like to be different? Would you like to change your personality? Perhaps you would like to be more extroverted. Or more open to new experiences. Or even just more organized. Well, thanks to the pandemic, here is your chance. 

People can and do successfully change their personalities even as adults. Now we are about to emerge from the isolation of lockdown and quarantine and rejoin the larger world. The stage is set for a new you. But this transformation will take work. To start, one could embrace the “As If Principle,” proposed by Richard Wiseman, a psychology professor at the University of Hertfordshire in England. This would require one to behave as if one were already that different person, and after a time, the new behavior and the person would sync. Famously, that is the story the debonair Cary Grant told of his early life, which started on the Bristol docks as Archie Leach and wound up at the pinnacle in Hollywood. “I pretended to be somebody I wanted to be until finally I became that person. Or he became me,” Grant said, according to the British newspaper, The Guardian.

An article in the April 11 issue of The New York Times took up this subject. Headlined, “You Can Be a New You After the Pandemic,” written by Olga Khazan, the story states the following. “Researchers have found that adults can change the five traits that make up personality — extroversion, openness to experience, emotional stability, agreeableness and conscientiousness — within just a few months.” 

Another psychology professor, this one at Columbia University, asserts a similar theme. Geraldine Downey, who studies social rejection, has found that “socially excluded people who want to become part of a group are better off if they assume that other people will like them. They should behave as if they are the popular kid. Getting into social interactions expecting the worst, as many socially anxious people do, tends to be a self-fulfilling prophecy.” In another example of change, “people were able to become more extroverted or conscientious in four months just by listing the ways they’d like to change and what steps they would take to get there,” according to the NYT article. If one wants to be more outgoing, one can make a list of upcoming events in which to interact or persons to call for lunches, and after enough such efforts, the act becomes natural.

It can help in this transformation to see a therapist, research recommends. One such example described a person with neuroticism, “a trait responsible for anxiety and rumination.” After a short burst of therapy, in which the “warm, comforting presence” of a therapist encouraged the idea that the client is a valued person, neuroticism receded, and the studies showed the effect lasted for at least a year.

But not everyone can afford a therapist. Mirjam Stieger, a postdoctoral researcher at Brandeis University, and her colleagues developed an app that “reminded people to perform small tasks to help tweak their personalities, like “talk to a stranger when you go grocery shopping,” to prompt extroversion. The app then asks them if they had done that. According to the study, after three months, the change had stuck.

Agreeableness, by the way, involves “greater empathy and concern for others.” And so, being agreeable after this pandemic could mean being gentler toward one another. We now know, for example, how much essential workers sacrificed during the pandemic, many even their lives. That would suggest greater kindness and patience toward someone who, during the pre-pandemic, might just have been dismissed as annoying. We don’t know what exactly has been that person’s recent experience. At least that can be a conscious thought to modify behavior in what otherwise might have been a contentious situation.

For those who wish to change or live differently, as the NYT article says, “your personality is more like a sand dune than a stone.”

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METRO photo

By Leah Dunaief

Leah Dunaief

Why, if there are 9,700,000 Americans looking for work now, some six percent of our population, are there so many signs outside businesses seeking helpers? Granted, many of those signs are in front of restaurants looking for waiters and shops needing salespeople, service industries in the main, but why the disconnect? And this is not just a regional problem but one in large cities like New York, villages like ours, as discussed at a recent local chamber of commerce meeting, and even rural communities. 

The situation could have some unwelcome consequences as the economy tries to recover. “It could act as a brake on growth and cause unnecessary business failures, long lines at remaining businesses and rising prices,” according to an article in last Saturday’s The New York Times, entitled “Businesses Challenged to Fill Jobs.”

The story, written by Neil Irwin, goes on to offer some possible answers. First is the suggestion that benefits are too generous. “The government is making it easy for people to stay home and get paid. You can’t really blame them much. But it means we have hours to fill and no one who wants to work.” That’s a quote from a pub owner in upstate Baldwinsville, New York, that appeared in the Syracuse Post-Standard and was reprinted in the NYT. 

Some people can make as much or more, thanks to the expanded weekly unemployment payments and the various stimulus cash that has been delivered by the government, at least for awhile. With the reawakening of restaurants and services now, there are more jobs than applicants, which doesn’t drive workers to seek work, compared to the opposite, when the pandemic first hit and jobs were disappearing. The recipients of the cash are doing what economists hoped they would do: spending it. That encourages businesses to reopen, but without enough help. Hence the problem. But it may cure itself when expanded benefits run out in September.

There are other reasons workers may not be inclined to rush back into the workforce. Some, especially those with public-facing jobs, may be afraid of getting sick themselves or perhaps bringing the virus home to vulnerable family members. There does seem to be a relationship between vaccinations of people and a rise in their employment rate, according to the NYT. Researchers have found that a “10-percentage-point increase in those fully vaccinated results in a 1.1 percentage-point increase in their employment.” It would make sense that vaccinated people are more comfortable serving the public.

Here is another possible explanation for the labor shortage. Some of the workers are still needed at home, especially women who might be caring for children, some taking classes remotely, or elderly members of their family. The Times goes on to quote a survey indicating that 6,300,000 million people “were not working because of a need to care for a child not in a school or day care center; and a further 2,100,000 were caring for an older person.” Many of those people, especially women, have disappeared from the rolls of the unemployed and are not even counted any longer. The answer here, as in everywhere else, is in conquering the virus and establishing herd immunity so schools and day care centers can open.

For those businesses that have thrived during the pandemic and have been able to raise the wages they pay workers, like Amazon or construction companies, there is less of a supply problem. But those businesses take away potential workers from industries like restaurants, with thin profit margins. And those workers may not return if they have found better berths for themselves elsewhere.

These issues will sort themselves out eventually, as public health improves and supply-and-demand comes to equilibrium. But one thing is certain. The return to any sort of “normal” will not happen without bumps in the road.

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