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D: None of the Above

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By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

With 10 weeks left until the end of 2021, it seems fitting to consider what we might put into a time capsule that future generations might open to understand the strange world that was so incredibly different from the one just two years ago.

Here are a few items I’d throw into a box I’d bury or shoot into space.

— Masks. Even with so many events where people aren’t wearing masks, including huge gatherings of fans at sporting events, masks are still a part of our lives in 2021.

— A Netflix app. I’m not a streaming TV person. Most of my regular TV watching involves sports or movies (many of which I’ve seen a few times before). Still, I got caught up in the “Stranger Things” phenomenon and am now impressed with the storylines from “Madam Secretary,” which include prescient references to our withdrawal from Afghanistan and to the potential (and now real) pandemic.

— Pet paraphernalia. The number of homes with pets has climbed dramatically, as people who seemed unwilling or uninterested in having dogs are out with their collection of poop bags, leashes and pieces of dog food to entice the wayward wanderer in the right direction.

— A zoom app. Even with people returning to work, many of us are still interacting with large groups of people on a divided screen. Future generations may find all this normal and the start of eSocializing and virtual working. Many of us today are still trying to figure out where to look and avoid the temptation to scrutinize our own image.

— Cargo ships. The year started off in March with the blocking of the Suez Canal. For six days, the Ever Given kept one of the world’s most important canals from functioning, blocking container ships from going from the Mediterranean Sea to the Red Sea. As the year has progressed, concerns about shortages and supply chains have triggered fears about empty shelves.

— A small model of the Enterprise. The ship from the show “Star Trek” seems apt in a 2021 time capsule in part because William Shatner, who played the fictional Captain James T. Kirk (or admiral, if you’re also a fan of the movies), traveled briefly into space. In many ways, the science fiction of the past — a telephone that allowed you to look at someone else — is the fact of the present, with FaceTime and the aforementioned zoom.

— Competing signs. Protesting seems to have returned in full force this year. As the year comes to a close, people who do and don’t believe in vaccinations often stand on opposite sides of a road, shouting at cars, each other and the wind to get their messages across.

— A syringe. We started the year with people over 65 and in vulnerable groups getting their first doses of a vaccine that has slowed the progression of COVID-19, and we’re ending it with the distribution of booster shots for this population and, eventually, for others who received a vaccine eight months earlier.

— Take-out menus. I would throw several take-out menus, along with instructions about leaving food at a front door, into the time capsule. While numerous restaurants are operating close to their in-dining capacity, some of us are still eating the same food at home.

— An Amazon box. Barely a day goes by when I don’t see an Amazon delivery truck in the neighborhood, leaving the familiar smiling boxes at my neighbors’ front doors.

— Broken glass. I would include some carefully protected broken glass to reflect some of the divisions in the country and to remember the moment protesters stormed the capital, overwhelming the police and sending politicians scrambling for cover.

— Houses of gold. I would throw in a golden house, to show how the value of homes, particularly those outside of a city, increased amid an urban exodus.

— A Broadway playbill. My wife and I saw a musical for the first time in over two years. We were thrilled to attend “Wicked.” The combination of songs, staging, acting, and lighting transported us back to the land of Oz. Judging from the thunderous applause at the end from a fully masked audience, we were not the only ones grateful to enjoy the incredible talents of performers who must have struggled amid the shutdown.

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Freddie Freeman of the Atlanta Braves. Wikipedia photo

By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

Before I get to the current difficulty of deciding which of the four remaining baseball teams to support, if any, I’d like to offer the following observations on a bipolar Yankees season, in which a 13-game winning stream seemed as unlikely as a 70 loss season.

The team had the talent, sort of. They are, as the saying goes, what their record says they are. In many ways, it’s remarkable that they even made the one-game wildcard playoff. They weren’t exactly world beaters against the Baltimore Orioles, who almost single handedly made it possible for the other four teams in the division to finish with over 90 wins.

They also gave away games that they seemed a lock to win, coughing up leads late, and losing key games to a Mets team that struggled to find its identity and mojo after the best pitcher on the planet, Jacob deGrom, was injured.

But this isn’t about the Mets. So, for what it’s worth, here are my Yankees thoughts. Stop worrying about how much money you’re paying players. Go with the players that helped you win. That means, if defensively-gifted shortstop Andrew Velazquez played a key role in big games with his range and defense, give him a chance.

If that also means Greg Allen needs a few at bats and a chance to race around the bases, give him a shot, too. Oh, and Tyler Wade? I know he’s not going to hit 400-foot home runs too often, but he is a versatile gamer with an ability to play numerous positions and, on occasion, to have a high contact hot streak.

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If I were managing my favorite team, I’d stick with whatever is working and not try to race injured and under performing players back. Sure, Gleyber Torres and Gio Urshela have been valuable pieces in the past, but that’s not a reason to put them back on the field in the hopes that they’ll be something they weren’t before each of them got injured.

As for the current playoff conundrum, what should Yankees fans who are still paying attention to baseball root for during the last three series?

Come on, it’s almost impossible to root for the Red Sox because, well, they’re the Red Sox. Then again, the Astros are not just a baseball villain, but are also Yankee killers. Jose Altuve, who used to be a beloved versoin of the little engine that could, hits a huge home run in 2019 off of Aroldis Chapman then covers up his uniform so no one can rip it off and show a tattoo he didn’t like? Yeah, I’m sure that’s what happened because these players are so modest about their body ink.

One of those two teams will represent the American League in the World Series. If I had to choose one, I think, gulp, I’d go with the Red Sox. Part of the reason for that is that I have so many friends and professional colleagues who love the team that I’d be happy for them.

In the National League, the Braves are a feel good team. I saw Freddie Freeman at the All Star Game a few years ago and he seemed like a genuinely good father. I know that’s not a critical criteria for rooting for someone, but he held his kids and smiled at almost anyone who talked to him.

The Dodgers are the beasts of baseball in the last few years. Just when you think they couldn’t get any better, they add Max Scherzer (seriously?) and Trea Turner, two incredible deadline acquisitions for a team that was already a powerhouse. Mookie Betts is otherworldly in one way or another, with his speed, incredible and accurate arm and his ability to put the ball in play and, at times, over the wall.

I’m going to root for the underdog in the national league here, pulling for the Braves to make a Cinderella journey into the World Series and beat the deep and talented Dodgers.

Now, if I get my way and it’s the Braves against the Red Sox? I’m going to root for the Braves because it’s still the Red Sox. No matter who wins, though, I’m hoping for a seven-game series because that’s good for baseball and for the baseball fan. I know the season is long enough, but those last few games are like the final number in a Broadway musical. The energy is high, the fans are on their feet, and no one wants to leave.

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Pixabay photo

By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

What do you name after the man who’s already named everything after himself?

That is the question people will grapple with when they consider how to deploy the name of the 45th president.

Did you know, apart from edifices and casinos, the Trump name has been added to a species of small moth with yellowish-white scales on its head, called the Neopalpa donaltrumpi? Additionally, a sea urchin fossil is called Tetragramma donaldtrumpi.

What should be in the running to honor the legacy of a man who may extend his presidential legacy in 2024?

Here are a few suggestions that, hopefully, will delight and alienate people on both sides of the aisle equally.

— A pizza slicer. Called the Trump, this great divider will cut a pie into two pieces, elevating the one on the right while crushing the one on the left into a mess of tomato sauce and crumbled cheese that wants to tax the rich.

— A board game. With a rotating cast of characters, the object of the Trump Cabinet Shuffle will be for each player to hold onto as many cabinet members for as long as possible, even as many of them either want to leave or write books about their experience.

— A remote control. The former president clearly found TV a relevant and important medium. People around the country could search their couches for the “Trump,” so they can change the channel to watch Fox News, which will provide the names for the Trump Cabinet Shuffle.

— The Trump label maker. Borrowing from an episode of “Seinfeld,” people could develop a label maker named after someone who was fond of naming people and objects. The Trump label maker would default to the most common words in the Trump vernacular, including “disgrace,” “beautiful,” and “fake.”

— A fast-food franchise. Given the former president’s predilection for the fast food he served to college football players, it’s surprising no one has come up with Trump World Burgers. Each restaurant could have a game of darts, where patrons could sling darts at the faces or names of their least favorite democrats. Every wall would have a TV tuned to Fox News and every place setting would sit on top of the New York Post.

—A magic wand. Can’t you picture it? Let’s get out the Trump wand and make everything unpleasant — impeachments, investigations, and distasteful stories- disappear.

— A fertilizer company. Yeah, okay, this might seem especially harsh, but fertilizer, while it’s made from feces, is necessary for the growth of many of the foods we eat, whether we’re vegetarians and eat only greens, or carnivores and eat the meat that eats the greens.

— Oversized boxing gloves. With pictures of the former president on each hand, a boxer could put his small, medium or large hands into red Trumps to fight against the forces of evil.

— An especially tall straw pole next to a smaller pole. The taller Trump pole could show how, even at a distance, he’s leading his closest competitor. “Trump is always ahead at the polls.”

— A distorted mirror. Like the side view mirrors on cars, these Trump mirrors could accent certain features while minimizing others, creating whatever reality the viewer prefers.

— Stiff-legged pants. With material that stiffens during the playing of the National Anthem, the Trump pants would make it impossible to kneel.

— A huggable flag. Given his preference for hugging flags, someone should design a flag with arms that hug back, as in, “the Trump flag is ready for its hug.”

— A “yes” puppy. You know how people have little puppies whose heads pop up and down when you touch them on their dashboard? Someone could add a sound effect to that, like “yes, yes, yes, yes,” each time the Trump head moved.

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Pixabay photo

By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

This time of year, my dog walks with relief and trepidation.

The relief comes from temperatures that have cooled off enough that his heavy fur doesn’t exacerbate the humidity and discomfort from stifling heat.

The trepidation arises out of the emergence of ominous additions to the neighborhood that change the world he knows.

The spiderwebs along fences and hanging on bushes and trees don’t bother him, but the ghosts planted in the ground, the green glow-in-the-dark skeletons and the hanging vampires terrify him, as he prefers to scamper toward the street and passing cars rather than walk near an inexplicable figure swaying in the wind, hovering over him like some supernatural predator.

And so it was, recently, that we took an early October walk through our neighborhood.

While these figures create anxiety for him, I was mulling the numerous global threats to the future for which we Americans and we humans are grappling. Global warming, debt limits, infrastructure bills, gun violence, the pandemic, partisanship, educational deficiencies, a destructive oil spill in California and everything else ricocheted around my head as I thought of the many looming crises.

A sight on the horizon snapped me out of my anxiety labyrinth. There, around the corner, appeared to be roadkill.

In the distance, I couldn’t recognize it, but I was sure that, once we got closer, my dog would pull desperately to inspect the flesh and innards of a former living creature.

Generally, when I try to pull away from decaying matter on the road, my dog seems eager to get as close as he can, like a forensic photographer or a police inspector from Law & Order, trying to figure out who might be at fault for the end of a life, whether the driver tried to maneuver away from the animal based on any skid marks nearby, or, perhaps, whether the animal contributed to its own untimely end.

I try to distract him, whistling, calling his name, tugging ever so slightly on his leash to redirect him away from these sites, hoping to keep far enough away that the flies feasting on rotting animal flesh don’t land on us.

Usually, such maneuvers have the same effect as making suggestions to my kids about what to do, like studying the bassoon because every band needs a bassoon player and many schools are lucky to have one or two such double-reeded wonders: they cause an equal and opposite reaction.

I’m sure Newton’s third law wasn’t referring to parenting, but it seems that when we say “here” they want to go “there,” and when we say “there,” they want to go “here.” My dog seems to have studied the same playbook in response to any such guidance or direction.

As we walked, I pulled left, trying to figure out what was on the road, which seemed broken into four parts. This could be a particularly unappealing mess, I thought, trying not to make a subconscious suggestion through the leash that he head straight for it.

I held my breath as a slight wind picked up from the other side of the detritus, hoping I wouldn’t smell something awful and that, somehow, neither would my dog.

As we got closer, I used my peripheral vision. That’s when I noticed something unusual. Amid the odd red and brown colors was a mixture of an orange and blue mess. What kind of animal’s innards are orange and blue? Was this a Halloween roadkill? 

I deciphered letters on the ground. That was definitely not blood. It was a Burger King wrapper, with obliterated fries, a flattened Whopper and a crushed cup.

Perhaps too focused on the Halloween decorations, the dog wasn’t at all interested or enticed by the fast food roadkill.

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Pixabay photo

By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

If you’ve ever watched the show “The Voice,” which teenage sensation Carter Rubin from Shoreham won last year, you know the format involves celebrity judges making blind choices during a prolonged audition process.

With their backs to the performers, the judges listen to the contestants sing several bars of familiar songs, sometimes swaying, sometimes mouthing the words, until they hear something in the voices that clicks or that they think they can improve to lead these aspiring artists to the promised land of a music contract, fame and fortune.

The process is imperfect, as are most decisions we make.

The judges don’t get to rate everyone, listening to the entire array of singers before rank ordering or assembling their team. As they go, they add aspiring musicians to their teams, competing against the other judges to encourage performers to work with them.

This process is akin to so many others in so many contexts.

Many years ago, I attended a spectacular and extravagant holiday party for Bloomberg News at the Museum of Natural History. The organization had rented the entire museum during after hours. Fortunately, I brought my then-girlfriend, who is now my wife, to that event, which has given us a party to remember over two decades later.

Anyway, each room had a performer and a collection of tables with mouth-watering food. Hungry and maneuvering slowly through each room, we probably ate more than we should have in the first few rooms, until we understood the spectacular assortment of foods, culminating with sushi under the blue whale in the main room.

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Having eaten more than I should prior to reaching the whale, I could only sample a few pieces of sushi before shutting down the food consumption. Well, that was true until we waited for the one person in the coatroom who was matching tickets to coats. At that point, servers brought trays of dark and white chocolate-covered strawberries up and down the line.

The point, however, is that the imperfect choices my wife and I made earlier in the evening affected how much we could eat as the night wore on.

In the last few months, I spoke with several researchers in Stony Brook University’s Department of Geosciences, including Joel Hurowitz and Scott McLennan. They are working with a rover on Mars that is choosing rocks in the Jezero crater, putting together a collection of samples that will, one day, return with a round trip mission to the Red Planet.

They can’t sample every rock that might reveal something about Mars, indicating whether life could have existed on the planet billions of years ago.

The decision to choose something in the present, like the rock in front of the rover on Mars, the current singer who is living out his or her dream on “The Voice,” or the morsel of food in a buffet that stretches throughout a museum, can limit the ones those same people have in the future.

Hopefully, along the way, we learn from the decisions we’ve made, the ones that work out and the ones that don’t, that enable us to improve our ability to make informed choices.

And, even if whatever we chose may not be exactly what we thought it was, we, like the judges on “The Voice,” might be able to mold the raw materials of our lives into something even better than we’d initially imagined.

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Pixabay photo

By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

In a fractured and uncertain world, the skill sets that make us marketable to potential friends, employers and neighbors have shifted.

Sure, competence, professionalism and experience can and do come in handy in the context of numerous environments. These days, though, getting along with others and navigating through the cacophony of frustration beamed into our living rooms and phones on an hourly basis seems to have elevated what otherwise might seem like trivial skill sets in another time.

I have come up with a list of skills or, perhaps more appropriately, qualities that might be helpful in the modern world.

I don’t overuse the word “literally.” To emphasize a point, people often literally throw the word “literally” into phrases, as in “I literally hate tofu.” I’m not sure you can figuratively hate tofu, but I don’t overuse that word.

I keep a straight face: even when confronted with outrageous claims in which others hold fast to ideas, to heroes or to patterns I find questionable or even objectionable, I don’t wince, roll my eyes or shout them down until I’m in the safe space of my home with my wife.

I know how to write a handwritten note. Electronic communication has become so ubiquitous that sharing a personal touch that comes from writing something by hand has scarcity value.

I have trained my dog to do exactly what he wants. Sure, other people have trained their dogs to sit, roll over, fetch the newspaper and come to them when they call, but my dog does exactly what he wants. That means when he wags at me, he’s genuinely excited to see me and he’s not just wagging because he’s expecting some immediate reward or punishment.

I can find almost anything in a supermarket. Having spent an embarrassing amount of time searching the supermarket for foods that satisfy four diets and that take the place of in-person dining and social interactions, I can find most items sooner than supermarket employees.  

Through a hard-target search of every bed sheet, blanket and pillowcase, I can find the remote control. While that may seem trivial, it shows a willingness to go the extra mile to avoid having to take a few extra steps to change the channel.

I speak teenager. Yes, they are wonderful people who not only have a shorthand way of speaking, but also have a tendency to multitask while they are talking, looking at their phones or speaking through a mouthful of food. I can interpret much of what they say even when they appear to be offering disconnected sounds in a guttural and frustrated language.

I can finish an entire chapter in a non James Patterson book without checking email or texts. That means I can concentrate for longer periods of time. Patterson is excluded because the chapters in his violent novels are often shorter than this column.

I can make myself laugh. Every week, I enter the New Yorker cartoon contest. The captions I write never win, but they make me laugh.

I have a wealth of untapped ideas. I look at all the masks around me and think, “Hmm, I could come up with so many new mask products.” For example, how about mood masks, which change color depending on the person’s mood? Or, perhaps, masks with the outline of states, presidents of the United States, or images of abolitionists, important women in history or slogans? Masks could become the equivalent of educational posters hung on the walls of classrooms or, if you prefer, facial bumper stickers, giving someone starting at our covered mouths a chance to read or see something new.

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METRO photo

By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

Joe, the gentleman at the supermarket register, asked me the routine questions.

“Did you find everything okay?”

“Do you have a rewards number?”

I nodded and typed in my cell phone number.

At the end of the order, I carefully watched the total, waiting for the moment he asked me whether I wanted to donate a dollar or round up my total.

Instead, it looked like the cost declined, even after applying all the discounts. In order to be sure, I had to remove my glasses, which allow me to see at a distance, but not to read.

Yes, the total decreased by 5%. Just as I was about to thank him, I went slack jawed behind my mask. Staring closely at the total in the register, I realized he had given me the senior discount.

I pondered what to do. I could tell him I’m not a senior. Then again, maybe anyone over 35 was a senior. Okay, fine, 40. Alright, 50. 

Anyway, I thanked him for ringing me up, told him to stay safe and headed to the car, where I promptly checked the age for a senior discount at my supermarket. Yup, just as I suspected. He gave me the discount well before I was eligible.

As I loaded the groceries in the car, I wondered whether this was a freakout mid-life crisis moment. Maybe this was the universe’s way, through Joe, of reminding me that I’m not a kid anymore.

Then again, I thought, steadying myself behind the wheel, maybe Joe had just typed that senior discount button by mistake. Maybe he felt generous or, perhaps, he was giving everyone a senior discount, just to stick it to his bosses. 

I have an image of myself that doesn’t align with what other people see, or even what I notice in the mirror. Somewhere along the lines, my brain imagined that the younger, fresher, more energetic version of me continued to type on my computer, yell at the TV when the Yankees lost, and maneuver through my life.

My body, and the unwelcome hair that seems to wave from my ears, has offered reminders about the passage of time. Recently, my son, who is still waiting for his freshman year to start in earnest after New Orleans recovers from Hurricane Ida, asked me if I wanted to have a catch.

Excited for some father-son bonding that doesn’t involve electronics, I readily agreed. Besides, it’s been a few years since he asked. I am no longer his coach and he has numerous athletic friends and former teammates who can launch balls across a field.

The first few throws felt comfortable, as my fingers reached for the familiar seams and tossed the ball back at his chest.

“Okay, move back,” he instructed.

A few throws later, he asked me to move back again.

“Wait, what?” my arm begged, to a brain that tried to hit the mute button on muscles, tendons, bones and rotator cuffs begging me to stop engaging in such unaccustomed activity.

Pretty soon, he was throwing lasers from the next county and I was trying to figure out if I could strap the ball to a nearby bird to return it to him.

Instead, I ran 20 steps, rotated my hips and snapped my shoulders in an effort to minimize the strain on my arm.

“Good idea,” he yelled. “You should soft toss it back to me.”

Soft toss? That was one of my hardest throws!

Two days later, we repeated the same routine. The second time, my arm instantly hurt. I might imagine that I’m 25 or even 35, just as I might imagine I can fly.

I can enjoy some consolation: the senior discount saved me enough money to buy an ice pack for my throbbing shoulder.

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Pixabay photo

By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

The pain in my abdomen climbed from a relatively mild one, which pediatrician’s offices usually represent with a slightly puzzled but still pleasant stick figure face, all the way to a 10, with a crying stick figure in extreme duress, in under five minutes.

Doubled over, I shuffled to my wife’s working station in our house and sat, uncomfortably, in a chair next to her.

She started to talk and then looked carefully at my face.

“What’s wrong?” she asked as I twisted in my seat.

“I have serious pain in my abdomen and back,” I said.

We knew what that likely meant. We’d been through this before, although last time was much more terrifying because we had no idea what was going on. Also, six years ago, the mysterious symptoms, including searing back pain, uncontrollable nausea and vomiting and extreme discomfort, appeared and disappeared. I might have had some reaction to bad food, we thought, or I might have inadvertently consumed my food kryptonite, dairy.

“It’s probably kidney stones,” my wife said, as she stood on my back to try to relieve some of the developing pain.

I twisted on the floor, hoping I wouldn’t have to go to an emergency room that was likely overwhelmed with the latest Delta variant wave of COVID-19.

I did the I’m-okay-and-can-tough-it-out-at-home-but-wait-maybe-I’m-not dance for about 10 minutes before I gave in and shuffled towards the car.

As soon as I got in the garage, I made a quick u-turn and headed to the closest bathroom, where I knelt next to the toilet and vomited.

“It’s another kidney stone,” I sighed in between heaves.

With a bucket in the backseat on the way to the hospital, I contorted my body into different positions, hoping to find one that would offer some relief. The last kidney stone episode taught me that wasn’t likely, as I did everything but stand on my head in the basement all those years ago to ease the unrelenting pain.

Fortunately, the emergency room only had two people waiting on a Friday morning. My wife spoke through a plexiglass shield with the receptionist, sharing my details while I disappeared beneath the counter into a crouched position.

The receptionist directed my wife outside until I had a room. I waited on the floor, with the same bucket at my side, for a nurse to call me.

During the 20 minute wait, the pain eased up just enough to allow me to breathe more normally and to sit on the floor. A chair was still not an option. The two other people in the waiting room were too engrossed in their phones to notice me.

Once I was in an examining room, I called my wife, whose sympathetic eyes and encouraging words eased some of my discomfort. She answered questions from the nurse as I stood on the floor and leaned the top of my body over the hospital bed as if I were praying.

The nurse promised to return with morphine. In the few minutes he was gone, I felt closer to a four on the pain scale.

I considered not taking the narcotic. The roller coaster ride along the pain pathway makes managing kidney stones, and so many other types of discomfort, difficult. Each moment of comfort is like a sliver of sunlight between heavy rain clouds.

The doctor confirmed our kidney stone diagnosis. He thought I’d pass the stone that night or the next day. I didn’t have any such luck, as I fought through symptoms for 10 days.

Finally, the obstruction exited. I was so elated that I jumped up and down in the garage with my baffled son, who was returning from an errand.

As others who have had kidney stones can attest, the experience is extraordinarily uncomfortable and painful. I feel fortunate for all the support from my wife, children, brothers, mother and friends. I can only imagine what people hundreds of years ago must have thought when these stones made their painful journey.

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Pixabay photo

By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

Last Friday around 10:30 am, our son, who just arrived at his freshman dorm 12 days earlier, asked how quickly I could get him on a flight back home.

I dropped what I was doing and searched for flights out of New Orleans. We knew he was in the path of Hurricane Ida and had been hoping, as Long Island had done the week before with Hurricane Henri, that he and the city would somehow avoid the worst of the storm.

His college had provided regular updates, indicating that the forecasts called for the storm to hit 90 miles to their west. That would mean they’d get heavy rain and some wind, but that the storm, strong as it might become, might not cause the same kind of devastation as Hurricane Katrina had exactly 16 years earlier.

By Friday, two days before its arrival, my son, many of his friends, and his friends’ parents were scrambling to get away from the Crescent City amid reports that the storm was turning more to the east.

Fortunately, we were able to book a mid-day flight the next day. An hour later, he texted me and said he might want to stay on campus during the storm, the way a few of his other friends were doing. I ignored the message.

Two hours later, he asked if he still had the plane reservation and said he was happy he’d be leaving.

Later that Friday, another classmate tried unsuccessfully to book a flight, as the scramble to leave the city increased.

My wife and I became increasingly concerned about his ride to the airport, which, on a normal day, would take about 30 minutes. We kept pushing the time back for him to leave, especially when we saw images of crowded roadways.

He scheduled an Uber for 9:30. On Saturday morning at 6 a.m. his time, he texted and asked if he should go with a friend who was leaving at 9 and had room in his car. Clearly, he wasn’t sleeping too much, either.

I urged him to take the earlier car, which would give him more time in case traffic was crawling. He got to the airport well before his flight and waited for close to two hours to get through a packed security line.

When his plane was finally in the air, my wife and I breathed a sigh of relief. We both jumped out of the car at the airport to hug him and welcome him home, even though we had given him good luck hugs only two weeks earlier at the start of college.

After sharing his relief at being far from the storm, he told us how hungry he was. The New Orleans airport had run low on food amid the sudden surge of people fleeing the city. After he greeted our pets, who were thrilled to see him, he fell into a salad, sharing stream-of-consciousness stories.

The next day, he received numerous short videos from friends who stayed during the storm. While we’d experienced hurricanes before, the images of a transformer sparking and then exploding, videos of rooms filling with water from shattered windows, and images of water cascading through ceilings near light fixtures were still shocking.

He will be home for at least six weeks, as the city and the school work to repair and rebuild infrastructure. During that time, he will return to the familiar world of online learning, where he and new friends from around the country and world will work to advance their education amid yet another disruption from a routine already derailed by COVID-19.

We know how fortunate he was to get out of harm’s way and how challenging the rebuilding process will be for those who live in New Orleans. When he returns to campus, whenever that may be, we know he will not only study for his classes, but that he and his classmates will also contribute to efforts to help the community and city recover from the storm.

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METRO photo

By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

We packed our bags full of dreams, hopes, clothing and cliches and took our son to college. We pondered the journey, which is really what’s it’s all about, and not the destination.

My wife and I were bursting with pride, thinking about the shining light that is our son.

We wondered what advice we could offer before we returned to a house that would feel so empty without him. We thought a good rule of thumb might be to avoid harebrained ideas, although we knew we could do better at preparing him for future dark and stormy nights.

As he took his first steps onto his new campus, we encouraged him to discover the world and himself at the same time.

We shared the butterflies that fluttered among our four stomachs. Like a good soldier in our family’s mission, his sister joined us for this momentous occasion, prepared to offer her version of older sibling advice and to help find whatever item he might need in a college dorm he is sharing with a stranger he’d chosen from a grab bag of potential roommates.

As we followed the move-in directions to a tee, we could feel the electricity in the air. We drove up to an official behind a desk, who was all ears listening to him spell a last name chock full of vowels.

With bated breath and sweaty palms, we waited with every fiber of our beings until she found him on the list. We breathed a sigh of relief when she found his name and handed him a key that would open his dorm room to a new world of possibilities. As a freshman, he knew he was no longer the big man on campus he had been during his pandemic-altered senior year.

Once inside his dorm, we got down to the business of unpacking. We debated where to put his shoes even as he stared out the window, considering where he might plant his feet.

Recognizing that time was of the essence, we spring to life while unpacking his room. Standing apart in a small room full of wonders, we drew strength from our collective mission.

Slowly but surely, we removed the contents of his boxes, creating order from the chaos despite a few moments when we felt like we were all thumbs. We lined all his ducks in a row, creating neat rows of pencils, pens and notebooks on his desk and boxers, shorts, tee shirts and socks in his drawers.

After we prepared his room, we wiped the sweat from our brow, reminding him that this effort was but a drop in the bucket of the work he’d need to do in college.

We assured him he could bet his bottom dollar he wouldn’t feel like a babe in the woods or a fish out of water for long.

We could almost hear the angelic chords as the sun set in the west, where it always sets because that’s the way the cookie crumbles, or, rather, the earth rotates.

Before we left him in his new home away from home, we exchanged embraces and urged him to dance to the beat of his own drum.

We also suggested he find a healthy way to blow off steam, to recognize that a rising tide lifts all boats, to swim when it was time to sink or swim, and to play his cards right.

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