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Between You and Me

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By Leah S. Dunaief

Leah Dunaief

Who could forget the frantic scene of Berliners tearing down the Wall? That one action marked the beginning of a changed world.

It was 1989 when the Soviet Union collapsed and the Berlin Wall came down. Officially the end of the government came on December 26, 1991, with the 15 consistent republics gaining their independence, but the disintegration had been apparent for some time. Berliners were able to tear down that Iron Curtain, symbol of East-West separation and the Cold War, because the Soviet soldiers simply walked away from their posts. 

Why did they walk away? 

They hadn’t been paid in many months due to acute economic problems, food shortages and widespread political upheaval in the Soviet Bloc and in East Berlin, the Communists’ foothold in Western Europe. Government and its systems were bankrupt.

Yes, the West had won the Cold War. But as its name indicated, it was not a military war. It was an economic war. In trying to globalize Communism, the Soviets had spent themselves into insolvency.

Once again, the West seems to be locked into a struggle with Russia, the successor government to the Soviet Union. This time there is a military, “hot” war, but the economic war remains. And the Economic War may ultimately dictate who wins. The western allies have been sending hundreds of billions of dollars in the form of armaments into the battlefront of Ukraine, and the Russians have been doing the same, not only militarily in the Ukrainian war front but also within their country. 

The internal toll was revealed in a front page article of The New York Times this past Tuesday. The domestic economic fallout of the Russian effort is enormous. There is a state-led spending boom that has propped up the Russian economy from the effects of far-reaching sanctions imposed by western countries. As a result, this economic boom has helped maintain popular support for President Vladimir Putin and his Ukrainian war effort. But Russian economists have warned of a threat to the country’s financial stability. Can their economic high be sustainable?

Russia’s expanding military production and the increased funding for Russia’s poor in the form of higher pensions, salaries and benefits like subsidized mortgages, particularly offered in marginal regions with the most military recruits, is fueling inflation. Lending by the government has stimulated the economy and kept down social unrest. Mortgages supplied by Russia’s top 20 banks rose 63 percent in the first half of this year, with one out of every two mortgages subsidized by the state. Soldiers’ salaries are much higher than average local earnings, and families of those who die get payments that can be greater than their annual earnings. And with 300,000 men called up to fight, worker shortages are extreme and salaries have risen, furthering inflation.

Even as Russia’s federal government has spent almost 50 percent more in the first half of this year than in the equivalent period in 2021,  the country’s energy revenues have fallen by half.  “Sanctions have forced Russia to sell its oil at a discount and European countries slashed purchases of Russian natural gas,” according to the NYT. And hundreds of thousands of predominately white collar workers have left the country in protest of the war or to avoid the draft, an additional loss to earnings.

So once again, money is pouring out, and not just from the Russians and their allies. We, too, are spending prodigious sums to maintain the war effort, and doing so in the aftermath of previous huge outlays to sustain Americans during the pandemic. Our economy seems strong, for the moment, even as our growing national debt seems to bother few officials. 

The war in Ukraine has become one of attrition, with Russia and its allies waiting out the American-led coalition in the belief that we are a short-term nation in our war endeavors and will withdraw sooner or later. While that may well be, whoever withdraws first may be the side in financial ruin.

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'The Capture of John Andre' by John Toole. Wikimedia Commons

By Leah S. Dunaief

Leah Dunaief

But for the fact that three militia men were playing cards and having lunch in the bushes alongside the Albany Post Road south of the West Point fort in 1780, we might be speaking English with a British accent. 

It was down this road that British Major John Andre came galloping, and when the three stopped him near Tarrytown, N. Y. to ascertain his business, they searched him and found detailed maps in one of his boots. It was key information about the fort, and the men realized the rider was a spy, trying to get behind the British lines in New York City.

As it turned out, Andre was coming from a meeting with Benedict Arnold, the commander at West Point, who was about to turn over the fortification to the British and join them in the Revolutionary War. The fort was a most important installation, blocking the British garrisons from moving up the Hudson, splitting New England from the rest of the colonies and connecting with their troops in Canada. This strategy could well have ended the war. 

The British troops had tried to overwhelm the fort but failed. There was a British ship moored in the Hudson, and when Arnold got word that Andre had been captured, he boarded the ship and crossed over to the other side of the river where the British were camped, making his escape and marking him for all of history as a traitor to his country.

The Fidelity Medal

Andre was recognized as an important figure and turned out to be head of British intelligence. The Colonists questioned him in detail. The map and information he carried would have allowed the British to enter and capture West Point. Andre confessed his role and ultimately was hanged as a spy, much as Nathan Hale had been four years earlier.

During the time Andre was held prisoner, he succeeded in charming his captors. A well educated man, of keen wit and culture, he was appealing to the upper-class American officers, including Alexander Hamilton and the Marquis de Lafayette, of the Colonial Army for his patriotism to his country. Ironically, we have heard of “Poor” Andre and Benedict Arnold, but most of us have never heard of John Paulding, David Williams and Isaac Van Wart, the three who captured the Brit. That is, until now.

Van Wart and the other two were farmers in their early twenties and were part of a local militia attempting to protect the much harassed residents sandwiched between Washington’s forces in the Hudson Highlands and the British army in Manhattan. That is why the three were stationed along the dirt road. Andre tried to bribe the men to release him, but they handed him over to American forces. 

The men “were recognized by the Continental Congress with hand-wrought, silver military medals, now considered to be the first ever awarded to American soldiers,” according to a New York Times article in last Saturday’s issue. And while two of the three medals were stolen from the New York Historical Society in 1975 and never found, the third was held by the Van Wart family for over two hundred years and has now been donated to the New York State Museum in Albany, where it can be seen starting in the fall.

The three men met with Washington, were given the medals, and each a plot of land and a lifetime annual pension of $200, which was then a “princely sum.”

Van Wart died in 1828, and the medal was passed down through the generations of his family until it reached Rae Faith Van Wart Robinson in White Plains. She was inordinately proud of her ancestor and kept the medal in a shoe box under her bed, taking it out to display at historical events. She never married, had no children or siblings, and when she died in 2020, she instructed that the medal be given to a museum where it could always be viewed and the story told. The front of the medal prominently bears one word: “Fidelity.”

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By Leah S. Dunaief

Leah Dunaief

Big mammals must appeal to me. I love horses. When I visited South Africa, I fell in love with elephants. And now that I have returned from a few days on Cape Cod, I am totally smitten by whales.

It was my first whale watch foray. We boarded a ferry-size boat in Provincetown, off the eastern tip of the Cape, and I was surprised to see at least 200 people, who had the same idea, seated on two decks. It was a perfect day to be out on the water, hot, humid, with only a soft breeze barely stirring the ocean. We finally found seats in a shaded section of the upper deck just as the boat took off heading north east into the Atlantic.

Everyone seemed in a holiday mood, talking and laughing for over an hour until someone yelled, “Look! There are mists ahead.” Then silence, as everyone peered at the horizon. The captain slowed the boat and as we got closer, we could see the backs of two whales, diving and surfacing, expelling air through their blowholes as they breathed.

“Those are humpbacks,” the tour guide explained over the PA system. “There are many different kinds of whales,” she continued. It seems there are about 80 species of living whales, and they fall into two groups: baleen and toothed. We were seeing baleens, a word that refers to the manner in which they secure their food. Instead of teeth, baleens are like broad vertical Venetian blinds that grow down from the roof of the whale’s mouth. They are hard, like our finger nails, each one at least a foot long, maybe five inches wide and close together. They act to filter what the whale takes in, excluding anything wider than plankton.

Two years ago, around this time, a whale swallowed a man just off the Cape. This is a true story that made headlines all over the globe, and the man, Michael Packard, lived to tell the tale. 

“I’m done! I’m dead!” was the immediate reaction of Packard, who is a lobster scuba diver, when he was sucked into the mouth of a whale that came up behind him as he was descending to the seabed to search for lobster. Whales feed by opening their mouths like a wide elevator door, squeezing whatever is ingested, then spitting out what doesn’t get filtered by their baleen. 

Suddenly he felt a huge shove and it got completely black, and Packard realized he was inside a whale. “ I could feel the whale squeezing with the muscles of his mouth,” said Packard, as quoted by Newsweek. “I thought to myself, ‘there’s no way I’m getting out of here.’”

But then the whale “started going up. All of a sudden it just got to the surface, and he started shaking his head and getting all erratic … and then boom!” The diver flew out of the whale’s mouth, traveled a distance of some 50 feet and lay floating on the surface, looking up at the sky. “I think I’m going to live,” he remembers. He was inside the whale for about 40 seconds. Packard was picked up by a crew member, who called to shore, and when they arrived at the pier, an ambulance was waiting to take him to the hospital. He wound up with one broken rib and some soft tissue damage. Three weeks later, he was back diving for lobsters but now also making TV appearances with the likes of Jimmy Kimmel.

Actually, the whale didn’t swallow Packard. A whale’s throat is too narrow for a human to pass through. The humpback held Pachard in his mouth, then surfaced and spit him out.

We were lucky on that trip, seeing 18 whales, according to the tour guide’s count. Once the boat stopped, the whales surfaced and dived around us, almost as if they were entertaining us. One whale, estimated by the captain to be about 6 months old, cavorted and flipped  not far off the starboard side of our boat for at least 15 minutes. Some of us believe he was encouraged by our screams of approval and deliberately putting on a show.

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METRO photo

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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Pixabay photo

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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By Leah S. Dunaief

Leah Dunaief

You’ve heard of ChatGPT, yes? So had a lawyer in Brooklyn from his college-aged children. While the lawyer has been in practice for 30 years, he had no prior experience with the Open AI chatbot. But when he was hired in a lawsuit against the airline Avianca and went into Federal District Court with his legal brief filled with judicial opinions and citations, poor guy, he made history.

All the evidence he was bringing to the case was generated by ChatGPT. All of it was false: creative writing generated by the bot.

Here is the story, as told in The New York Times Business Section on June 9. A passenger, who had sued the airline for injury to his knee by a metal serving cart as it was rolled down the aisle in 2019 on a flight from El Salvador to New York, was advised that the lawsuit should be dismissed because the statute of limitations had expired. His lawyer, however, responded with the infamous 10-page brief offering more than half a dozen court decisions supporting their argument that the case should be allowed to proceed. There was only one problem: None of the cases cited in the brief could be found.

The decisions, although they named previous lawsuits against Delta Airlines, Korean Airlines and China Southern Airlines, and offered realistic names of supposedly injured passengers, were not real.

“I heard about this new site, which I falsely assumed was, like, a super search engine,” lamely offered the embarrassed attorney.

“Programs like ChatGPT and other large language models in fact produce realistic responses by analyzing which fragments of text should follow other sequences, based on a statistical model that has ingested billions of examples pulled from all over the internet,” explained The NYT.

Now the lawyer stands in peril of being sanctioned by the court. He declared that he had asked questions of the bot and had gotten in response genuine case citations, which he had included in his brief. He also printed out and included his dialogue with ChatGPT, which ultimately at the end, offered him the words, “I hope that helps.”

But the lawyer had done nothing further to ensure that those cases existed. They seemed professional enough to fool the professional.

Now the tech world, lawyers and judges are fixated on this threat to their profession. And warnings exist of that threat being carried over to all of humanity with erroneous generative AI.

But this is not an entirely ominous story.

Researchers at Open AI and the University of Pennsylvania have concluded that 80% of the U.S. workforce could see an effect on at least 10% of their tasks, according to The NYT. That means that some 300 million full-time jobs could be affected by AI. But is that all bad? Could AI become a helpful tool?

By using AI as an assistant, humans can focus on the judgment aspect of data-driven decision-making, checking and interpreting the information provided by the bot. Humans provide judgment over what is provided by a bot.

Ironically, the lawyer’s children probably passed their ChatGPT-fueled courses with good grades. Part of that is the way we teach students, offering them tons of details to memorize and regurgitate on tests or in term papers. The lawyer should have judged his ChatGPT-supplied data. Future lawyers now know they must. 

As for education, emphasis should go beyond “what” and even “so what” to “what’s next.”  Learning should be about once having facts or history, then how to think, to analyze, how to interpret and take the next steps. Can chatbots do that? Perhaps in an elementary way they now can. Someday they will in a larger context. And that poses a threat to the survival of humanity, because machines will no longer need us.

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Pixabay photo

By Leah S. Dunaief

Leah Dunaief

Had he lived, my brother would have been 95 this week. As it happened, he barely made it to 64 before dying of heart problems. I barely knew him, there being such an age gap and with no siblings between us, and he still disquiets me, like an unfinished story. Perhaps that’s because, by the time I could have gotten to know him, he was gone, gone from the house by the time I was six and from my life when I could have started to pay attention.

I have a number of memories about him, of course. In his 20s, he was quite good-looking, with thick, wavy blond hair and big dark brown eyes, a straight nose and strong chin. I was with him one day when a young woman my family knew gave him a piece of paper with her phone number on it and asked him to call, so I knew he wasn’t just good-looking to me.

My brother also personified great adventure. He rode a motorcycle, flew a twin-engine airplane in the days when plane flight was somehow romantic but becoming commonplace, and he owned a car, a 1948 Plymouth, which was unusual for someone who lived in the midst of New York City. He would drive the family back and forth to my grandfather’s farm in the Catskills and also to get some air along the outer borough highways on hot, sticky summer days. I always sat in the front seat because otherwise, I would throw up from the motion of the car. 

He loved cars and could fix whatever was malfunctioning under the hood. In fact, he loved anything mechanical and might frequently be found tinkering with motors. He also would talk endlessly about the physics of propulsion, telling my friends and me more than we wanted to know. 

I don’t remember his job title, but he had a major role in developing Checker cabs.

For those who are too young to remember them, Checker cabs were big, yellow automobiles with jump seats in the back floor that could unfold and transport a party of five plus one passenger in the front anywhere in the City. 

The real genius of the cab was its modular construction. Until then, if a taxi was in a fender-bender, not an uncommon occurrence in urban heavy traffic, it was off the road being repaired for at least two days. After all, no one wanted to hail a crumpled taxi, and so there was substantial lost revenue. But my brother’s work on the idea of manufacturing fenders that could pop off the body of the cab and be replaced with another in half an hour was considered a major breakthrough for the industry. I believe he collected a small royalty for many years.

There is a photograph of my brother pushing me on a swing. I look to be about three years old. I have no memory of that, but I do well remember his teaching me to shoot a .22 rifle in a country field near my grandfather’s farm and his enthusiasm when I was able to hit the can and knock it off the fence. In my excitement, I turned back to look at him, continuing to point the rifle straight ahead, only now it pointed at him. I guess the incident remains with me for his look of distress and panicked directive to turn back around.

My brother attended my graduation from college, and I was puzzled by his show of pride. I never knew that I was anything growing up but a great distraction as I required our parents’ attention and contaminated the chemicals in his photography dark room. But I do remember that a couple of my classmates asked me how old he was.

We lived in Yorkville, a German section of NYC, and he loved wiener schnitzel with spaetzle and red cabbage. Many years later, I traveled into the City one day to meet him for dinner, and it was at just such a meal that we had one of our first meaningful conversations in a restaurant on East 86th Street and Third Avenue just before he died.

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METRO photo

By Leah S. Dunaief

Leah Dunaief

Suddenly it’s June. Didn’t we recently put our holiday decorations away? Wasn’t it mid-winter break just a couple of weeks ago? Time warps, especially if we have busy lives. We look up and five months of the year have already passed. 

But of course, June is most welcome. It is the month of high school graduations, of weddings, of the official turning to summer with the summertime solstice and the most daylight hours of the year. For those readers interested in random data, June is the second of four months to have a length of 30 days and the third of five months to have fewer than 31 days. Take that to “Jeopardy!”

June is also the month when all the trees are dressed in their finest, lushest leaves, when the weather beckons us outdoors because it is neither too cold or too hot quite yet. June is when the swimming pools in the neighborhood shed their covers and offer to the eye patches of refreshing blue as we drive along the local roads. June is when allergy season begins to recede with the gradual lessening of tree and grass pollens.

Early June is when I like to travel because each day is longer, and I feel I am really getting my money’s worth on a tour. That’s also when most families are still home, their young ones not yet finished with school, and therefore all services, from palaces to restaurants are less crowded. Unless I am in the southern hemisphere, where it is technically the start of winter, the weather in June tends to be perfect, not much rain, the temperature ideal.

June was probably named after the Roman goddess Juno, the goddess of marriage and the wife of the supreme deity, Jupiter, There are also other suggestions for how the month got its name, but we really don’t have to list them all because no one I know is actually preparing to appear on “Jeopardy!”

That said, you still might like to know a few of the month-long observances for June. There is: 

African American Music Appreciation Month 

ALS Awareness Month in Canada 

Caribbean American Heritage Month 

LGBTQ+ Awareness and Pride Month 

National Oceans Month 

PTSD Awareness Month 

Great Outdoors Month 

And my personal favorite, National Smile Month, which is celebrated in the United Kingdom and should migrate across the globe.

There is also: 

International Children’s Day on the first Tuesday 

World Bicycle Day on the first Wednesday 

National Donut Day on the first Friday 

Father’s Day on the third Sunday 

Here is one to ponder: Seersucker Day on the second Thursday 

And on the third Friday, National Flip Flop Day. 

Hmmm. Maybe with all that said, we should give a second thought to “Jeopardy!”

When our children were in elementary school, I always welcomed June with enthusiasm. It meant that July and the end of the academic year were not far away, which in turn meant sleeping in and not having to prepare for the early bus to school, long, lazy days at the beach, family baseball games on the empty school fields on weekends and frequent outdoor barbecues. This year, June means, among more hedonistic pursuits, a month with five Thursdays, and therefore five issues of the papers and website to fill with local news that we will report to you. 

Happy reading!

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METRO photo

By Leah S. Dunaief

Leah Dunaief

This past weekend was both fabulous and exhausting. We drove nine hours down to Virginia to celebrate with my granddaughter as she graduated from college, and with my son and daughter-in-law, her parents, who helped make it happen. Both sides of the family were represented, and we were all in, cheering, laughing, eating, strolling and talking, talking, talking for two days straight, not counting our travel days.

We were certainly not alone enjoying this milestone. I never saw so much traffic on the roads between here and Virginia, both going and coming, and we theorized it was all those families and all those graduates driving the highways on this college graduation weekend in May.

The joy of a graduation from college spans generations. Those who seemed to feel the accomplishment most, perhaps, were the families of first-generation graduates, whose members would often boast to anyone listening, “She’s the first to graduate.” We all cheered, clapped, and if we could, whistled during those 30 seconds when our loved one crossed the stage, was handed the diploma, smiled for the camera, then returned to his or her seat.

Predictably, we heard lots of speeches. Those who received honorary doctorates, the president of the college, the chancellor, the student representative, the keynote speaker, all addressed the graduating class and their guests with words of wisdom that, as I recall from my graduation, were promptly ignored. For us then, the tone, however, was hopeful and positive.

This time, though, there were two differences that I heard. The first was a recognition that the world for these young people had changed, both physically and societally. The country was sadly divided, and climate change was altering the globe. People were not listening to each other. That they might enjoy better lives than their parents because their future was bright was never mentioned.  

These graduates had their lives and their studies interrupted by the pandemic and were captive of their computers for part of their  learning. The message was that they had lost out in their four years, lost the easy camaraderie of uninterrupted campus life and the person-to-person contact with their classmates and professors. There was some reference to overcoming challenges and resilience, but on the whole, there was none of the usual comments as to how this next generation was going to make the world a better place. It seemed the goal was just to cope.

The other difference from the educators was, to me, defensive. Stressed was the need and importance of education. Of course, they were preaching to the choir. But still, the comment rang out, “When you have forgotten all [the facts] that you have learned, what you will have left is education.” More than once, the reference was to having learned how to think analytically as being the major benefit of their college years.

I did get a kick out of one dean, who referred in her talk to the various world events that had occurred during the past four years. We listened attentively because we all experienced them. And when she was concluding, she confessed that almost the whole speech had been written by ChatGPT. We laughed but not without a tinge of concern for future college students.

As always, at graduations, it is a happy and also a sad time for the graduates. There is a lot of “goodbye.” They are leaving behind those they had come to know and places that had become as familiar to them as their dorm rooms: where they shopped for food, where they retreated to study, where they played volleyball, where they enjoyed their “midnight snacks” that were probably well beyond midnight.

Our granddaughter keenly felt the yin and yang of moving on. She tried to spend time with us even as she was drawn to the gatherings and parties on campus of her friends and roommates. I wanted to tell her that this time was a beginning, more than an end, and that she would be taking the best with her into the next chapter. 

But I didn’t. She had already heard enough speeches.

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By Leah S. Dunaief

Leah Dunaief

“When are you going to retire?” is a question that makes me smile. Of course, it is closely related to another word: age. Put the two words together, and I start to become defiant, which is probably why Martha Stewart decided to pose in a swimsuit for the cover of Sports Illustrated’s annual issue.

Now I know about Martha Stewart, who was not called by that name when she was a year behind me at Barnard College. That means she is only one year younger than I, and she, too, was feeling defiant. She wanted to show the world that she was not invisible just because she is older. And indeed, she is showing the whole world because she is an international personality, a businesswoman, writer and television personality, who has written books, publishes a magazine, hosted two syndicated television programs and personifies contemporary graceful living with her Martha Stewart Living ventures.

My guess is that many women in the latter years of their lives are cheering Martha Stewart’s swimsuit photos and her defiance.

Ageism is definitely an unwelcome bigoted “ism” in this century, when people are often living into their 80s, 90s and beyond. One of my personal heroes is Warren Buffett, American business investor and philanthropist. Chairman of Berkshire Hathaway, known as the “Oracle of Omaha” and worth over 100 billion dollars, making him the fifth richest person in the world, he will be celebrating his 93rd birthday in August. Even more impressive is his business partner, Charlie Munger, who is 99. Together they still run the fabulously successful company.

Another such story is about Milton Esterow, 94, profiled in The New York Times last Sunday. A publisher at the age of 10 in Brooklyn where he grew up, he made 18 copies of his first publication, each consisting of one handwritten page, and sold them to friends for 2 cents apiece. You can see why he has already stolen my heart. Today he still writes articles for The New York Times about culture and art. In between, he has traveled around the world, met famous artists, owned the country’s oldest art magazine, ARTimes, and won many distinguished prizes. His culture stories had an edge. In 1964 he wrote a front page story for The NYT on treasures stolen by the Nazis during WWII, one of rare culture stories to run on page one. 

His investigative approach made his stories and magazine successes. In the early 1980s, as a result of a rumor he had heard, he and his wife flew to Vienna and visited a monastery that might house thousands of works looted by Nazi soldiers. He met with head of the Federal Monuments Office in Austria and sensed that the man was defensive. He assigned a reporter to dig around and by 1984, the article appeared attesting to the hidden collection. At that point, “All hell broke loose,“ according to Esterow.

“In 1985, the Austrian government announced a plan to return stolen works to their owners or heirs,” according to The NYT. “In 2016, the general consul of Austria presented Mr. Esterow with a Cross of Honor for Science and Art, saying that his work helped to make Austria ‘a better country.’”

Esterow continues to follow the trail of Nazi looting. He does not plan to retire. I particularly like what he had to say about that.

“Work is more fun than fun.”

For all these people and so many more octogenarians and older — Martha Stewart, Warren Buffett, Milton Esterow — retirement is a strange idea. Old age is another.

My sentiments, too.

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