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D: None of the Above

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By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

I went to the bank to deposit a check recently. My daughter, of course, doesn’t do any such foolish activities. She knows how to deposit her checks without leaving her apartment.

Yes, technology is wonderful, but I still like to go to the bank and get a receipt that I promptly add to the pile of random papers that is almost as tall as I am.

Several hours before the bank closed on a Friday, the stories and queries about weekend plans were all the rage.

“What are you doing this weekend?” one teller asked excitedly. She smiled so broadly that she could easily be in the finals for a game show hosting competition or, at the very least, win extra points for customer friendliness.

“I’m having such a great day,” the teller offered before I could muster a noncommittal reply.

“Why?” I asked, as I glared at the machine that seemed to be refusing to take my check. A hint here: machines don’t care if you glare.

“Well, my manager made nachos today and she brought in home baked cookies,” she said. “They were amazing. I was planning to get a salad but this is so much better.”

“Sounds great,” I said, as I willed the machine to take the check. “I’m not sure how many of those I could eat in a day and get away with it.”

She looked me up and down and laughed.

“Yeah, well, I’m young and I still can’t get away with it,” she suggested.

Yup, I’m older. What gave it away? My gray hair? The fact that I’m depositing a check at the counter? The wrinkles? The indulgent impatience blended with a need to check off the next errand box?

“My daughter is having a sleepover,” one man sighed. “I’m going to grill for them. My wife is going to handle the rest, but…”

Yes, but you might need to take on some responsibility. And who knows how late they’ll stay up. And, of course, who knows if they’ll break any of the rules they promised to uphold before your and your wife agreed to allow this party.

Like my parents, I was never a huge fan of sleepovers. The sleep part often didn’t materialize, making the kids grumpy and surly the next day, sabotaging any quality, hah!, family time or even household peace.

Another person at the bank planned to travel with her daughter for a cheer competition.

“If I knew then what I knew now, I’m not sure I would have encouraged that,” she grinned.

I couldn’t help smiling at that.

“You know,” I said looking away from the machine that still refused to take my check the way a young child refuses to open his mouth when you’re giving him medicine, “It kind of doesn’t matter what activities your children choose. Once they’re in, you’re along for the ride.”

I ticked off all the sports our children did. 

“So, which was your favorite?” she asked.

“Volleyball and soccer,” I said, picking one from each child.

“Why?” she grinned. The machine had started to make some promising coming-to-life noises that were the electronic equivalent of the groans my dog makes when I get him up too early.

“Volleyball is amazing because a player can mishit the ball twice in a rally and the team can still win the point. It’s a forgiving sport, unlike baseball or softball where one ball might come to a player per hour.”

“And soccer?” she asked.

“Oh, that’s easy,” I shrugged. “I knew nothing about the sport, so I wasn’t tempted to be an annoying judgmental over the top father who needs my children to be the absolute best player on the field. Not that he wasn’t, of course, but I could honestly offer him encouragement without being even mildly tempted to provide advice.”

At that moment, the check finally went through. 

With that, the cookie-making banker handed me my receipt, I waved to everyone and wished them well with their weekends.

Some Mondays can’t come soon enough.

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By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

Uh oh. I started to feel sick more than a week ago.

What could it be?

Let’s see: I had a headache, my nose was running, I had a low grade-ish fever, although my thermometer was much more like a magic eight ball than an effective way to determine my temperature, and I was much more exhausted than usual.

Of course, I had…. well, what?

I mean, these days, one person’s virus is another’s bacteria is another’s combination of things.

I went to the pharmacy and picked up a collection of over the counter flu treatments to reduce the symptoms for everything.

You see, the problem is that I know that I had only three or four days to get to a doctor to get a definitive diagnosis.

I felt too sick to go to the doctor and hoped my vague, general symptoms would leave me alone.

Nope, they barnacled their way into my system, leaving me, day after day, wondering what I had, how contagious I was and whether I should see a doctor.

After muddling through four days, I went to a local drug store, where I picked up a test for Covid and the flu.

After receiving negative tests for both, I scheduled a doctor’s visit. I wasn’t sure what she’d be able to tell me, but I was hopeful that she could give me a magic pill or a definitive diagnosis.

After explaining all my symptoms to the nurse, I went through the same routine with the doctor.

“Well, you should be getting better in a few days,” she shrugged. “There’s really no point in testing you at this point.”

“What can I take?” I asked.

“Advil? Tylenol?” she recommended.

Hmm. I felt as if I were hearing the old “take two aspirin and call me in the morning” advice.

I racked my brains trying to think about what might have made me sick. Was it the money I touched? I rarely handle cash, but I didn’t want to pay the extra 3 percent credit card fee for a food purchase in the days before I got sick.

Was it traveling on an airplane? Probably not, because I still wear a mask to keep my hands away from my face.

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Was it the guy at the gym who was exhaling hard in my direction while he race walked on the nearby treadmill? Sometimes, when I can smell someone’s breath at the gym, as I did earlier last week, I figure that’s a sign to move to another apparatus, but those dang endorphins were kicking in, making it hard for me to give up my treadmill before working through my routine.

Much as we might wish that we could return to normal now that Covid is gone, normal, as we might recall, still includes the passing along of all kinds of disagreeable illnesses with their persistent symptoms.

Perhaps it’s the extended winter. After all, usually by now, we’ve had some respite from the lower temperatures and strong winds. We might be spending more indoor time with other people.

Yeah, people can be great, because they can make us laugh, commiserate with us when things don’t go well with our kids or at work, and can share entertaining and enjoyable outings to concerts and sporting events.

And yet, those same people are like walking petri dishes, with their own sets of flora and fauna that can threaten to keep us from feeling completely healthy.

Despite being a bit obsessive compulsive about germs, I am not antisocial and I don’t generally try to avoid people.

I do, at times when I’m feeling sick, wish that I had an app on my phone that’s akin to finding all my friends. Instead of searching for people in my network, this app might warn me about entering a room with a preponderance of viral or bacterial particles.

Maybe this app could be like a GPS with a safety feature.

“No, that bathroom in Grand Central Station is a bad idea. The knob is covered in virus A and the paper towel dispenser has virus B.”

Being sick saps some of the fun from each day. If misery loves company, I suppose I have plenty of friends with stuffy noses, dull headaches, and mild to moderate congestion.

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By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

We recognize and register the temperature as soon as we leave our climate controlled house, car or office and step foot outside.

Cold, windy air might cause us to raise our shoulders, protecting our necks the way frightened turtles might pull back towards the shell when they sense a threat.

We have developed a real feel temperature or a “it feels like” temperature. Yes, it’s 28 degrees, but it feels like 12, which, to some, is more like negative 20.

How people experience temperature varies widely. An 85 degree day, with bright sunshine, could make one person feel as if he’s ready to conquer the world and is absorbing the sun’s energy.

Another person, say me, for example, might step out into that same temperature and instinctively search for shade, an air conditioner or a place near the water.

Many of us have friends, coworkers, spouses, children or roommates who prefer temperatures that are diametrically opposed to our own heat or cold sensitivity.

If my house were, say, 66 degrees, I would likely feel comfortable, while my wife would probably come into my home office wearing a sweater, gloves and a frown.

Taking out the financial part of the equation, people can and often do battle for control of the thermostat.

Differences between the sexes can explain some of this temperature disconnect.

Beyond describing the different cultures, expectations, communications and score keeping between men and women, the metaphor from the book “Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus” also might aptly capture the temperature differences, as Venus, with its gaseous carbon dioxide atmosphere, is the hottest planet and Mars is the fourth hottest. Neptune, incidentally, is the coldest.

While the gender generalization may apply in some cases, that’s never been my family’s reality. My daughter and I tend to run hotter, while my wife and son are cooler and prefer some heat as a counterbalance.

During the extremes of either season, half of the family is comfortable while the other half is either looking to dive into a pool of ice water or is eager to sit with a book near a roaring fire.

Many years ago, my wife and I attended a spectacularly hot college reunion. Well, it was incredibly hot for me. My wife left my side for a moment and returned with some ice cubes. She dumped them down my back and was shocked when I didn’t arch my back or pull my shirt out of my waist to dump the ice on the floor. The ice provided welcome relief.

The moderate middle tends to keep the family happy, as no one is complaining about uncomfortable extremes.

Given temperature sensitivities in our house, we all tend to be closest to our temperature best in the fall and spring.

Of course, as with everything else in life, different stages bring different temperature sensitivities.

When my wife was pregnant with each of our children, her body ran much hotter. We took winter walks that would have been almost inconceivable, so to speak, before we conceived.

The passage of decades, however, has changed how I experience temperature. I have become much more comfortable sitting in a warm baseball stadium and am not so tough when confronted with single digit temperatures.

To be sure, I’m still not able to wallow in a jacuzzi or an unusually hot pool for any length of time without feeling as if my skin is starting to boil.

Recognizing that what constitutes comfortable temperatures varies, I wonder why people so often imagine hell as a place with fire and brimstone.

The poet Robert Service wrote a wonderful and lengthy poem about Sam McGee, which a bus driver recited from memory when my wife and I took a trip to Alaska. With beluga whales we could see surfacing in the distance as we drove along the coast, she shared “The Cremation of Sam McGee” about someone who left Tennessee to search for gold in the Arctic only to discover that the cold was much easier to find than gold.

Sam is so spectacularly cold that he delights in the idea of being cremated when he inevitably dies.

For Sam, and perhaps many others, heat might be far preferable to a frigid afterlife.

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By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

With temperatures soaring, the large gathering of friends and family used programs to fan themselves.

Sweat dripped down my back as I waited in a wooden chair amid bright sunshine to witness and celebrate my brother’s graduation from Colgate University. Thoughts of my brother mixed with a need to find shade and an ice cold drink.

I had attended several graduations before this one, including my older brother’s and my own from college. I recall my Ward Melville High School graduation being incredibly warm as well, but this one seemed longer and more protracted, perhaps because we had to drive several hours to attend.

I pondered all the phone calls to the 315 area code with my younger brother, who complained about the snow, the ice and the bitter cold temperatures, which was an enormous contrast to the stifling heat of that day.

The commencement speaker, Fay Vincent, was the commissioner of baseball at the time. His tenure started when his predecessor Bart Giamatti died of a heart attack at 51, eight days after banning Pete Rose from baseball for life for gambling on the game. 

I thought about Vincent this week when I learned he had died at the age of 86 from cancer. I remember a surprising number of thoughts and ideas he shared during that momentous and proud day in our family’s life.

Fortunately, the sound system on that field was clear enough that I could hear almost every word he said.

He started off by saying that there’s no such thing as a good, long commencement speech. Similarly, there’s no such thing as a bad, short commencement speech.

The overheated audience laughed at both well-delivered lines, relieved that their children’s names would be called fairly soon.

He had three pieces of advice for these graduates. He recommended that they do something good. While that course of action depended on each person’s definition of “good,” he urged people to use their time effectively and to contribute something to society.

He then suggested that people do something well. Merely taking a job, moving on to graduate school, or doing some kind of internship wasn’t enough: graduates needed to commit to completing any task well, whatever that might be.

And, finally, he urged them to do something. That line also elicited considerable laughter from the appreciative crowd, who, by now, was eating out of his hand and wasn’t so sure they wanted this speech to end too rapidly.

He urged graduates not to return home and spend too much time pondering their future. They needed to go out and experience life. And, of course, once they took whatever next steps, they should remember to engage in good work while committing to doing it well.

Recognizing that the commissioner of baseball couldn’t get off the dais without sharing a baseball story, he also offered one about a rookie umpire.

The Houston Astros were playing the Yankees at the Astrodome in front of more than 50,000 adoring fans during their home opener.

Nolan Ryan, the ace of the team and one of the best pitchers in baseball who still holds the record with seven no hitters, was on the mound.

Mickey Rivers, the speedy Yankees center fielder, was stepping up to the plate. The umpire signaled for Ryan, who entered the Hall of Fame in 1999 as a Texas Ranger, to throw the first pitch.

The ball exploded into the catcher’s mitt. The fans waited as the seconds ticked by. The players looked in for the call. The umpire signaled weakly, “strike?” and extended his arm. The crowd cheered wildly as the catcher tossed the ball back to Ryan, who had started out his 27-year career as a member of the New York Mets.

Rivers took a step out of the box and smiled at the umpire. “Hey, it’s okay, blue,” Rivers said. “I didn’t see it either.”

Vincent told the story and offered his advice with such gusto and passion that I can still recall the speech and its effect on people all these years later. 

Is it possible that Ryan was on another team during that speech and that another batter shared such relatable words to the umpire? Sure. But, I can remember the message, the charm and the encouragement (and, of course, the searing heat) as if I were sitting in that field yesterday, celebrating my brother’s graduation and appreciating Vincent’s word’s of wisdom.

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By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

A few years ago, a friend of mine called the night before a major operation.

I could tell he was nervous. His usual, unflappable voice was weaker and unsteady, as if he weren’t sure how things would go and was reaching out for encouragement.

“There’s pretty much nothing you can do at this point,” I said. “You really don’t need to be sharp or focused or even attentive tomorrow. You better hope the doctor is getting plenty of rest and is at his best.”

“That’s true,” he laughed. “Maybe I should send over a good dinner or encourage him to go to bed early tonight.”

Doctors, like so many other people in other professions, deal with activities and routines that are unimaginable for the rest of us.

As a child, I watched my father slowly and carefully remove glass from the eyes of a construction worker who had been in an accident. I also sat in horror as he ate a steak just hours after being in surgery for most of the day to reconstruct the eye of a local patient who had suffered extensive trauma.

The medical world’s ability to get past the “ick” factor is pretty incredible. These professionals, on whom we rely for our overall health and for the health of our specific organs and systems, improve and extend our lives, offering the best of modern medicine to counteract the effect of bad habits, hidden genetic problems that can complicate and threaten our lives, and pathogens that cause damage and destruction.

Recently, I visited a urologist. If you’ve been reading this column long enough, you might recall that I’ve had kidney stones. These are exceptionally unpleasant, causing pain and vomiting, among other discomforts.

Long ago, I shuffled into an emergency room, bent over double from the pain. After I told the admitting nurse what was wrong, she didn’t even bother with paperwork or with taking my blood pressure. She immediately took me to a room, where another nurse almost instantly provided a painkiller. I am still grateful to them years later.

So, you see, I feel the need to monitor the health of this system to reduce the risk of future such episodes.

This year, I was meeting with a new urologist. I tried not to think about the parts that are unpleasant but that are much less problematic than a kidney stone.

He knocked politely on the door, as if he might have been delivering a dish of salmon with steamed vegetables and couscous.

Who is it? I was tempted to ask in a falsetto voice. What difference did it make? Anyone who knocked was coming in regardless of what I said.

He washed his hands – thankfully – sat down and asked me to tell him about myself.

“My health history?” I wondered.

“No, I mean, are you married, do you have kids, what do you do for a living?”

Well, I write about weird meetings like this. But enough about me, how do you do what you do? I wondered. No, I didn’t say that. I smiled and offered the 20 second tour of my life. 

We even chatted about the Yankees losing Juan Soto to the Mets. Would they be better or worse this year?

After he asked me about my health history, he told me to lower my pants and underwear and put my elbows on the examining table.

“You’re going to feel some pressure as I examine your prostate,” he said.

I thought of my dog, whose head is often in my lap or near my face when they probe parts of his body he’d just as soon no human ever touched. He makes a face I imagine was similar to mine at that moment. Shocked expressions transcend species.

Afterwards, the urologist smiled at me, gave me a quick assessment and told me he wished me and the Yankees well this year.

Later, I tried to imagine sitting at a meal with him, chatting in an airport waiting room, or standing outside the backstop of a softball field as we waited for the chance to hit.

I couldn’t do it. Routine as his work might be for him and necessary as it might be for me, I struggle to disconnect from an exam that is a routine part of his work.

But, hey, I’m not anticipating that either of us will call the other on our birthdays this year. I’m glad he’s there, doing his thing and hope not to need additional services.

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By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

The back to back days of pardons given by former president Joe Biden and current president Donald Trump put me in a pardoning frame of mind.

In that vein, I think we should have a national day of pardoning in the United States, unrelated to who is president and what those pardons might reflect about the taint politics has on the entire notion of a justice system whose rules can and should apply to all.

Perhaps the day after the inauguration should become a day of amnesty or for some sort of pardoning day, when we can ask for and receive pardons from regular folks for regular offenses.

Here are a few pardonable categories:

Inaction: We sometimes have those moments when we could or should say something and don’t. We see someone bullying someone else and we have the chance to stand up for that person. Instead, maybe we’re relieved that the bullying didn’t come directly at us.

Many years ago in college, one of my professors (and some of you may have read this anecdote before, so pardon me) was berating someone for trying to remove some equipment quietly from the room. He shouted at him and dressed him down, complaining that this other person was making it impossible for him to do his job.

At the time, I thought about getting out of my seat and leaving the room, but I didn’t. I could have helped the person doing the work, or, perhaps, have said something.

Funny is in the eye of the beholder: We sometimes think, hope or believe we’re funnier than we are. Maybe we make a friend or classmate uncomfortable, joke with a partner or invalidate someone else with words we think are more clever than they are. A pardon day could give us a chance to rephrase what we said or, instead of explaining it or editing it, just deleting it from the record. Wouldn’t that be nice? Pardon me for trying too hard to be amusing and missing the mark so badly. Can’t you just see that on a card or in a text?

We thought we knew better: How often have our parents suggested something, like wearing boots in the snow, putting on mittens in the cold, or doing our homework instead of praying for a snow day, and been right? Perhaps an amnesty day would give us a chance to admit that they were right and, in return, they could ask for our pardon for telling the same stories about our stubborn and self-assured nature.

Last teammates: Gym class is filled with opportunities for embarrassment, discomfort and failure. We might let a ball scoot by us, run the wrong way or pass to the wrong teammate. But those pale in comparison to the moment when someone is picked last, yet again. These character-building experiences can and should include moments when the people chosen last defy the odds and receive a welcoming and eager reaction from a captain or teammates.

Understanding instead of anger: It’s easy to react to someone’s angry, abrupt or inexplicable actions with frustration and hostility. Why didn’t this person answer a text or email? Why did he or she cut me off? We can ask for a pardon and perhaps get a better understanding of why someone wouldn’t let us finish a sentence.

Ears not mouth: Sometimes, we need a pardon for speaking instead of listening. Speaking is so much easier, as we can share whatever thoughts are percolating in our brains. Listening is often harder, but can be more rewarding and meaningful for people who have something to share. Pardon me for speaking. What did you want to say? I promise I’m listening.

Bad math moment: Maybe we were splitting a check, leaving a tip or returning the favor for a gift someone gave our children and yet, somehow we didn’t send/ spend enough. We’ve all been distracted at inopportune times, even with money. A pardon for under-tipping a hard working waiter or waitress might go a long way. 

Sharing poorly: On a recent vacation, I went up to a buffet, filled a plate with chocolate chip cookies and carried them through the restaurant. A child in the restaurant pointed and said, “Look it’s the real cookie monster.” Yes, that’s me. So, for all those times I didn’t exactly share well, pardon me.

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President Joe Biden walks to the Oval Office with President-elect Donald Trump, Wednesday, November 13, 2024. (Official White House Photo by Adam Schultz) Wikimedia Commons Public Domain

By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

Here we are, teetering on the precipice of the transition from Joseph Biden back to Donald Trump at the White House.

What better time than now to ponder some random facts, such as birth order, about the presidency? I used a Potus Presidential Facts website that included siblings and half-siblings for the first part of this column and a host of other websites, including Wikipedia for the second part.

For starters, none of the men (it’s a men’s only club so far) who were the commander in chief were only children. Three presidents, meanwhile, had only one sibling. That list includes Calvin Coolidge, Franklin D. Roosevelt and Ronald Reagan.

Now, I figured that more presidents were first children than subsequent children, in part because first children often rule the roost, as primogeniture would suggest. But I was wrong.

Yes, first children are well represented, as 11 presidents were the oldest in their families.

First born children who would go on to become president started with John Adams and James Madison and included Lyndon Baines Johnson, Gerald Ford, Jimmy Carter, George W. Bush (43) and the soon-to be ex-president Joseph Biden, among others.

Second children, however, constituted the greatest number of presidents. After a lifetime of being described as number two, I now realize what a compliment such a designation is, at least in terms of presidential history, where number two is number one.

Starting with James Monroe, that list includes such luminaries as Abraham Lincoln, Theodore Roosevelt, Franklin D. Roosevelt, Harry Truman, John F. Kennedy and, well, Richard Nixon. Okay, so, Nixon didn’t exactly cover himself in glory, resigning in disgrace after the Watergate Scandal, but he doesn’t bring all second children down.

First and second children constitute 56 percent of the presidents.

Going to the presidents who had numerous older siblings, the three presidents who were born seventh all shared the same first name: William. The seventh born commanders in chief were William Henry Harrison, William McKinley and William Howard Taft. If history is any guide, that means a seventh born William, assuming somehow your parents didn’t choose the name for any of your older siblings, has a path to the presidency.

Four presidents were born sixth, starting with George Washington. Joining the first president in the number six club are Martin Van Buren, John Tyler and Franklin Pierce.

The fifth born list only has three entrants: James Garfield, Chester A. Arthur and Grover Cleveland, who shares the distinction of being the only president elected in two non-consecutive terms with Trump.

Fourth born presidents also have three members, starting with Zachary Taylor, continuing with Rutherford B. Hayes and going to Trump.

And, finally, seven presidents were born third in their families. The list started with Thomas Jefferson and included Andrew Jackson, Andrew Johnson, Woodrow Wilson, Dwight D. Eisenhower, Bill Clinton and Barack Obama.

Now, seven presidents were the youngest child, including Herbert Hoover, Ronald Reagan, Andrew Jackson, Andrew Johnson, Rutherford B. Hayes, James A. Garfield and William Henry Harrison.

On average, presidents had a little over five siblings. Biden had three siblings and Trump had four, making him the penultimate child.

James Madison, who served as the fourth president, had the most siblings, at 11.

While similar lists for first ladies are harder to find (at least for me), I did find some interesting factoids about a few first ladies.

During the war of 1812, Dolley Madison, whose first name originally had an “e” then didn’t in historical records and then did again as of 1958, rescued artifacts from the White House before the British burned it down. Frances Cleveland, meanwhile, was the youngest first lady and the only one who got married in the White House. At 21, she wed 49-year old Grover Cleveland.

Helen Taft was the first to ride with her husband in the inaugural parade and the first to ensure staff were treated equally in the White House. She planted the first of 3,000 cherry trees Tokyo had sent as a gift, helping to establish cherry trees as a staple along the Potomac river.

As for pets, Trump, James K. Polk and Andrew Johnson were the only White House occupants who didn’t have pets, according to Wikipedia. I’m guessing that some of the Secret Service members bitten by Biden’s dog Commander would have preferred that the incumbent didn’t own a canine.

Teddy Roosevelt had numerous pets when he was president, including snakes, dogs, cats, a badger, birds, and guinea pigs.

Numerous presidents received larger animals that they sent elsewhere. Eisenhower, for example, received a baby Forest Elephant from the French Community of African Republics that he shipped to the National Zoo.

 

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By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

It’s hard to come up with a short list of the pros or cons of skiing. The experience, with everything from getting there, to being there, to trekking home, is filled with, if you’ll pardon the pun, ups and downs.

I’d like to share a few observations from our recent venture to the slopes.

For starters, just being in the mountains is extraordinary. The air is fresh, clear and clean and the views of snow-capped peaks and valleys are inspiring. Of course, you have to get to those mountains, which can require anything from a long drive to a flight filled with challenges and delays.

On a recent trip, our flight to those magnificent mountains involved sitting in a row on the plane that was exceedingly hot. When I asked the flight attendant why the plane was so warm, she explained that we were likely sitting near the engines.

The way home was no picnic either, because those wonderful winter storms that bring snow caused us to have a five hour delay, coupled with another hot ride home that suggested that the entire plane must have been sitting too close to the engines. Other passengers complained that they were wearing tank tops and jeans and sweat through their pants.

Back to the positive, the chairlift experience often is an opportunity to meet interesting and compelling people during a short but jovial journey. In one such conversation, I met a precocious nine-year old boy named Stephen, who told me he and his family, including his mother with whom we rode the lift, had recently visited London and Paris. He said he liked the food better in Paris, but that the food in London had improved over the years.

“And how would you know that?” his flabbergasted and amused mother asked. 

He shrugged.

“My mom travels a lot for her work, so she’s not always around,” Stephen said. “Sometimes, we get to go with her to fun places, though.” That statement seemed to offer an interesting window into the dynamic in their household.

Those chair lift rides, however, can take longer to board and to ride than expected. The lifts can  stop at inopportune times, near a snow gun that blankets skiers and snowboarders with snow we’d prefer were beneath our feet rather than trickling down our necks. Other times, people on those lifts swing their legs back and forth, making me feel as if I’m on someone else’s suspended rocking chair.

On a trip down the slopes, the speed and movement can be exhilarating. The swishing sound of the snow and the speed of the wind, without any mechanical noise from an engine, can allow us to experience the world at higher speeds, as the sound of rushing air and sliding skis combine to form a whispering symphony. At the bottom, our tired but rejuvenated muscles can relive the excitement from our self-directed ride.

We are not the only ones on the slopes and, while we might enjoy the thrill of a high speed run, we may also brace ourselves for the possibility that other skiers or snowboarders might push themselves beyond their limits. We could become bowling pins on a mountain, as others lose control, barrel into us and knock us down.

In the moment, the great unknown over the next plateau presents the opportunity to anticipate and embrace the terrain ahead. Perhaps the untrodden snow just past the peak has perfectly packed powder, the mogul (or bump, in modern parlance) is the right height and dimensions to catch some air, or the width and steepness of the slopes is exactly as we imagine when we dream of the ideal slope.

The other side of that peak, however, may have thin cover, with grass or even exposed rock, while someone may have taken a spill just beyond what we can see, turning them into obstacles we have to avoid.

While the pieces of equipment makes it possible for us to traverse snow covered mountains deftly, they are not designed for everyday maneuvering. Walking through a parking lot in ski boots can be torture for our shins, which may take days or more to forgive us for our skiing indulgence.

And, finally, the weather can offer the kind of glorious sunshine that transports us into an Ansel Adams poster or inserts us into picture postcard, with light shimmering off the tops of mountains, causing snow covered trees to glow. Then again, Mother Nature doesn’t care how much you spent on lift tickets and is perfectly happy to throw wind, rain, sleet and snow at you from every direction.

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By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

Words, ideas, and concepts mean different things in different contexts. Some of those differences depend on the audience. The phrase “Santa Claus is coming to town,” for example, conjures different images, ideas and reactions depending on who is hearing it. Let’s consider the reaction of different audiences:

— A group of first graders whose families celebrate Christmas: These children might immediately wonder “when, when, when” this jolly man in a red suit is going to shimmy down the chimney and deliver what they hope are their favorite presents. It can’t be soon enough for many of these children.

— Parents of those first graders: These dedicated mothers and fathers might feel pressure to produce the kind of holiday they had or the kind they wish they had when they were young. The words might trigger some anxiety, as the approaching jolly man might mean they have limited time to generate holiday joy. Where, they might wonder, are they supposed to find some of the gifts their children crave and how can these presents arrive without causing their children to wonder about the boxes at the front door?

— Retailers: Store owners are likely to start feeling cautiously optimistic, as they are every year, that Santa and his minions will shop at their stores, helping drive their bottom lines and making it possible for them to afford to provide the kind of holiday treats their own children desire.

— Workers in retail stores: They may find the phrase charming and endearing initially, and may even enjoy the endless loop of holiday songs for a while. At some point, when they can’t get a particular song out of their head, they may crave other music and other sounds that don’t remind them of twitchy children who, like me, seem to be a perfect fit for a size the store doesn’t have at that time or that doesn’t exist because it’s between two typical sizes.

— Music teachers: These people, who put in extra hours every year that often extend well beyond any contracts or employment agreements, may be trying to find ways to coax the best sounds out of young voices or out of young musicians who are learning how to play their instruments without squeaking or hitting a wrong note. This year, they may also have tried to bring something original and new to the holiday concert, either by adding a new march or song or by offering their own take on the classic, which runs the risk of alienating audiences who come to hear the familiar version.

— TV networks: While many of us are a click or two away from new movies or streaming shows that we can binge watch, some people continue to watch ongoing holiday programming. The Santa Claus song may remind them of their stock of holiday movies, as they maneuver between old favorites like “It’s a Wonderful Life” and more modern comedies, like “Elf.”

— Dentists: Okay, so I’m a little obsessed about teeth lately. If you don’t know why, check out my column from last week. Anyway, given the propensity for cookies, cakes and candy, dentists may hear those words and picture ways to help people clean their teeth in the early months of the new year.

— Health club owners: Owners of gyms may hear these six words and immediately think about all the New Year’s resolutions that follow the holidays. They may hope that the desire for a sound mind in a sound body brings more people to their gyms, where people can use their equipment to sculpt and tone their bodies or to burn off some of the desserts that topped off a family meal.

— Narcissists: These people know who they are and are probably annoyed that it took me this long to think about them. They have better things to do than to read all the way towards the end of my column. Anyway, they would like to know when someone will be as good to them as they are to everyone else. 

— People who run charities: The arrival of Santa Claus may remind people to help those less fortunate, giving them an opportunity to provide something meaningful. These dedicated residents who focus on community service may hope to bring out the kind of holiday spirit and joy that enabled Dr. Seuss’s Whos of Whoville to celebrate even without their presents.

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By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

My initials suited me well before I was old enough to care.

You see, I don’t drink, so the idea of a DD, or designated driver, works for me.

Over the years, not drinking alcohol has triggered an even wider range of responses from adults than discussing my food allergies, which, in themselves, typically start unusual conversations. It seems odd to discuss painful digestive responses to consuming food with people who are about to eat.

Anyway, alcohol is supposed to be some kind of rite of passage, a bonding experience, a chance to celebrate and let loose, and something of a national past time.

I don’t mind when other people drink, but I’ve never been all that tempted to throw down a few beers or to end a tough day with a stiff drink.

When I don’t order a drink, I get a range of questions. “Are you in recovery?” “Are you taking medicine?” “Are you very religious?” “Are you sure you’re human?”

Alcohol is as much of a ritual in the country when adults celebrate as sugary treats are when our children attend another birthday party.

Athletes douse each other with champagne, beer, and other beverages when their teams win rounds of a playoff or championships. People toast each other and the start of a new year with adult beverages.

It’d be funny to see a baseball team retreat to the clubhouse after dog piling at the pitcher’s mound and eat a tray of cookies and milk (which I also can’t drink and, no, I don’t feel like describing what happens if I do). Can you imagine them sitting back with a tray of their favorite vegetables, a towel around their necks and a satisfied smile on their faces?

When I was younger, I held cups of alcohol and laughed with a group that became progressively louder. I would search for water or root beer, which was and still is my favorite soda.

I was tempted to order a scotch and soda, but hold the scotch or, perhaps, a rum and coke without the rum.

The early teens were my drinking sweet spot, literally. I could go through three or four Shirley Temples without seeming to develop too much of a sugar high. No doubt the milk and cookies, the ice cream and the chocolate sprinkles helped me build up a sugar tolerance.

I received my first bottle of wine from a friend in college, who was sharing it with me out of genuine appreciation and was, undoubtedly, following in his parents’ footsteps in offering me an adult gift.

Over the years, I have accumulated a collection of wines that have likely increased in value. At the end of coaching a long, hot baseball, softball or basketball season, grateful parents acknowledged the hours I put into running practices or preparing lineups for games for the team with a bottle of wine.

I did try drinking more than a few sips of alcohol a few times. Once, my wife took me out for my birthday, where I had about a cup of wine. I wasn’t drunk, but I was surprisingly tired and was much more ready for bed than for celebrating.

When my children reached their early teens, we ordered three Shirley Temples for the table.

Recently, I attended a bring your own booze holiday party. We brought some alcoholic drinks and a pecan pie.

We considered purchasing a large bottle of water for me, but figured there’d be a pitcher of water somewhere.

Walking from room to room, I didn’t find water and didn’t want to make anyone uncomfortable searching for it or trying to accommodate my request. When I returned home, I was happy to fill my reusable water bottle.

Professionally, not drinking alcohol is not quite as limiting as not playing golf. Back in the days when I covered investment banking, foregoing golf outings meant making fewer connections and gathering less information.

In those days, I was never invited to a batting cage to practice hitting baseballs, which I would have readily accepted.

These days, when neighbors offer to share a few cocktails on their porches, I smile and nod, without making any declarations. It’s harder to argue that I’m not drinking because I’m the designated driver when they live a few hundred feet away. Maybe I’ll bring my own water and will tell them my DD religion doesn’t allow alcohol.

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