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Leah Dunaief

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By Leah S. Dunaief

Leah Dunaief
Publisher, TBR News Media

Did you know that many people love their pets more than their spouses? We read that somewhere, and it inspired us to produce our “Love My Pet” section each year in time for St. Valentine’s Day. More than 75 smiling (I think) pets are included in this week’s issue, and while most of them are dogs and cats, we also have a parrot, a pair of nine-year-old water garden fish and a frog. We enjoy looking at all of them.

My experience with pets has been limited to dogs. We’ve dearly loved three golden retrievers and one royal standard white poodle over a period of 42 years. They were like our children, much better behaved, and it devastated us when they were so ill we had to put them down. Now I am just every dog’s adopted grandmother.

I can certainly understand the impulse of the California man who recently jumped into the flooded Los Angeles River after his dog fell into the swiftly moving current. Fortunately he was rescued by a helicopter. The dog, too.

Dogs are special companions. Somehow they sense our moods and comfort us when we are needy. Funeral Homes offer dogs on the premises for those who are grieving. Schools are using dogs to help students with mental health issues. Just the sight of a dog can be calming unless the human is afraid of dogs.

My sister was one such person. She had Down Syndrome and would stop, then back away when she saw a dog. This fear was probably transmitted to her by our mother, who had been badly bitten by a dog when she was a child and carried the mental and physical scars of that unfortunate incident all the rest of her life. 

One time, shortly after we moved into our new house and bought the first golden, my parents and sister came from New York City to visit. As she walked through the door and spied the dog, my sister began to cry out and tremble. The puppy, whose name was Tigger, immediately fell on his belly and crawled toward her, finally dropping his head onto her shoe tops. The act was so disarming that she stopped yelling and watched him with fascination. At that moment, he looked up at her and wagged his tail. We watched in amazement as she then entered the house, the dog beside her. Never again, on subsequent visits, did she shy away from him, but only him. She continued to be unnerved by other hounds.

I was once bitten by a dog, a German Shepherd. It was entirely my fault. I was about seven, it was summer, we were vacationing with relatives in the Catskill Mountains, and I was playing outside with the dog from the neighboring farm as my family chatted nearby. I had a ball and would bounce it, then race the dog to see which one of us could get to it first. In the ensuing melee, I jumped on his paw, he cried out and instinctively caught my calf in his jaw, his teeth breaking the skin. Everyone became excited, I was rushed to a doctor, a report was filed, and the dog was ordered tied up for 28 days to be watched for signs of rabies. Of course there were none, and I felt terrible watching him restrained. A couple of times, I would sneak out after dark and bring him bits of food from our supper.

He would greet me by leaping to his feet with tail wagging because dogs forgive more readily than humans.

I am sometimes asked which of the dogs was my favorite. To me, that is like asking which of my sons is my favorite. I believe I love equally and I enjoyed each dog for its own personality and idiosyncrasies. Our last dog, Teddy, had a particularly amusing trait. When we were seated at dinner, he would sneak under the dining table and grab the paper napkins from our laps. Someday, I may write a children’s book called, “Teddy, the Napkin-Snatcher Dog.” 

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Stony Brook Harbor. Photo by Pamela Murphy

By Leah S. Dunaief

Leah dunaief

In my basement, where we keep the television, there lives a whole array of characters ready to leap into exciting action with the click of a button. All I needed to make this miracle happen was a subscription to Netflix who, by the way, just raised its rates. It’s still worth it because, when I return from the office at the end of the day, and dinner is over, we can enter any number of worlds and stories for entertainment and in the comfort of our home. Yes, we live in an amazing age. There was a time when only rich Hollywood stars could have movie theaters in their basements; now all us bourgeois types can.

So what am I watching now?

I enjoy the series that have multiple episodes. I particularly like the ones that have been going on for years, and I can bing them from their beginnings on weekends, when I don’t have to get up early the following mornings.

Currently we are coming to the end of the episodes on season five of “Virgin River.” Supposedly set in northern California but actually filmed in the gorgeous mountains of Vancouver, British Columbia, the scenery is worth following the story as much as the plot. There are frequent shots of craggy mountain tops, dense forests, verdant valleys, waterfalls pouring into glistening rivers and often spectacular sunsets. 

The storyline, which is somewhat predictable but nonetheless engrossing, concerns an attractive but troubled nurse practitioner, who comes to the small town of Virgin River in response to an ad from a medical practice. She is seeking escape from her San Francisco past and indeed finds, and begins to build, a new life in a place “where everybody knows your name.” In this instance, it’s Jack’s restaurant. You might already have guessed that the best feature of the eatery is Jack, a hunky guy with his own demons.

The many characters that we then meet are well drawn and we become hooked on all their stories. Many of the themes in each episode draw on contemporary societal issues, such as the fentanyl crisis, sexual assaults and the California wildfires. Our characters face the problems that present themselves with greater or lesser success, but one thing is a relief. There is nothing about national politics or international conflicts. The plots offer pure escapism, which is a welcome change after I have watched the preceding PBS News Hour.

The concept of a small town, in which most people are deeply connected and care for each other, has always been popular for storytellers. Is there any truth to that idea?

Along the north shore of Long Island where our newsmedia focus, we essentially live in small towns that are strung together by our roadways and rail line. Is the quality of life better here than in New York City?

In my opinion, which, of course, is a mere sampling of one, I would say yes. I do hold twin perspectives, however. I grew up in Manhattan, where I spent the first 21 years, then lived in Boston, then Chicago—big cities all. It was only as I approached 30 that we moved here, and I tasted what to me was small town life. 

What did that mean?

It immediately meant not having to struggle for privacy, which is a feature of urban living.There was enough room out here for people to live as they wished. The neighbors were not on the other side of the wall, or in the apartment above or below. And it was quiet sometimes. It’s almost never quiet in a big city. It could also be dark, which means the stars and moon are visible. Is it ever dark in Manhattan? And it certainly smells better. There are no huge exhaust fumes from endless vehicles nor uncollected garbage in the streets.

And with less density, residents interact more willingly—at the post office or in the supermarket. The pace is slower, more conducive to a bit of socializing.

But New York, New York? I’ll always say it. “It’s a wonderful town.”

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METRO photo

By Leah S. Dunaief

Leah Dunaief

Not every student graduating from high school wants to go to college. In the middle of the last century, many traditional high schools in New York offered three tracks to a diploma: academic, vocational and general. Somewhere along the way, those last two seem to have disappeared or at least become less visible. But for those students not wishing to continue with their academic education, that’s a loss, and some educators and business people are realizing that.

In Boston, there is a new initiative to bring together high schoolers wishing career training with hospitals greatly understaffed and needing more workers. There is also at least one such effort locally to place interested students on a track to a well-paying job on Long Island’s north shore.

First the Boston story. The Mass General system, the city’s largest employer, needs people to fill the 2000 job vacancies in its hospitals. Bloomberg Philanthropies has stepped forward with a $38 million investment, to connect a small high school with the hospitals in a program that will involve some 800 students, leading them to jobs in medical services. “Students will earn college credits as they train for careers in nursing, emergency medicine, lab science, medical imaging and surgery,” according to an article in The New York Times this past Thursday.

METRO photo

Bloomberg, by the way, has pledged to invest $250 million over five years in ten cities and regions, pairing high schoolers with hospitals in an effort to help both. Howard Wolfson, education program lead at Bloomberg Philanthropies, was quoted by the NYT as saying, “There is a growing sense that the value of college has diminished, relative to cost. This [program] should not be construed as anti-college—every kid who wants to go should have the opportunity. But at the same time, we have to acknowledge the reality that, for a lot of kids, college is not an option, or they want to get on with their careers.”

The foundation was started by Michael Bloomberg, New York’s former mayor, who grew up in Boston. Funding will also go to New York, Philadelphia, Nashville, Houston, Dallas, Charlotte and Durham, as well as rural regions in Tennessee and Alabama. The idea is for students to choose a specialty by the end of tenth grade, and then train for the remaining two years in those areas of interest. Attention has been increasing on vocational education in the last few years, according to a state report in Massachusetts. Similar interest would probably be echoed here in New York.

Such an addition to the workforce in hospitals would also serve to better meet the needs of patients. And more well-paying jobs would ideally increase a city’s middle class, allowing students from some low-income households to graduate and move right into a good position. Some of the Bloomberg money is pegged for school social workers and mental health clinicians to further enable the students to succeed in this program.

And since a number of these students will probably come from minority families, they will help diversify the current staffs and better reflect the patient load in the hospitals. There are, according to NYT and Bloomberg’s Wolfson, some two million job openings that exist in health care across the nation. That number will probably double by 2031.

While this program targets hospital needs, other such feeder schools could aim to fill shortages of teachers and in other careers offering opportunity.

Our local program, similar in aiming to fill positions with guaranteed jobs for trained workers, is organized by the Bridgeport and Port Jefferson Ferry Company. Additional personnel will enable the ferry company, which employs a crew of 11 per boat, to continue carrying at least 450,000 cars and trucks, and some 300,000 walk-on passengers between the two states each year. That’s been their average, and perhaps it will increase as their newest boat, The Long Islander, is added in August to the fleet.

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METRO photo

By Leah S. Dunaief

Leah Dunaief

COVID got me again. This second time around makes me angry, which is probably irrational. I mean, really, I paid my dues, I succumbed like almost everyone else a couple of years ago, and I feel that should be that. Also, I did everything I was supposed to do. I was vaccinated again in the middle of October this past year and felt pretty immune, although I know the vaccine doesn’t prevent the disease, just makes it less severe if it hits. Still, I felt relatively protected and didn’t bother wearing a mask when in a group. I won’t make that mistake again.

I did take Paxlovid this time, as I had the first time, and perhaps my symptoms were less acute. This onset was a little different. Instead of the painful sore throat in the beginning, I developed a dripping nose and assumed I was getting a simple head cold. Then I got quite stuffy and began to cough and to run a low grade fever. I stayed out of the office, finally donned a mask and bought a test kit. The first test I took was negative, but the next day I tested positive, and I have been home since then.

I am sharing these details in the hope that they may be helpful for those who are experiencing COVID presently or who should be alerted now to the clear and present danger. Fortunately, I am again testing negative, but the weather is uncooperative at 17 degrees. The extreme cold and dry air is not recommended for a newly recovered respiratory system, and so I remain home for now. But I can reveal some more specifics that might be of interest.

Neurological aspects were less pronounced this second time around. The sore throat was less sore and lasted for a shorter period of time, I didn’t lose my sense of taste either time, and while the cough continues, it seems less frequent during this home stretch. But according to what I read, post COVID fatigue is worse, and I can confirm that. I haven’t slept this many hours each day since I was a teenager. Napping is also a help. I have craved hot soup, and little else, throughout these past few days. Blessings on my friends and neighbors, who have provided me with an endless supply, from homemade chicken broth to the store bought wonton variety. I am also drinking smoothies made up of fruits and especially dark green leafy vegetables, like bok choi and baby kale and arugula. This particularly helps ward off dehydration. And while I have lost a couple of pounds, this is not the preferred way to diet.

There are some studies on patients who have had COVID more than once. Experts are still unsure about how damaging that might be, if at all. New variants, like JN.1, and periodic upticks keep the virus a current threat. There are at least 1200 covid-related deaths each week, and in the last week of December, nearly 35,000 Americans were hospitalized with COVID. No one seems to know if repeated exposure to the coronavirus increases the risk of Long Covid.Those who were hospitalized with the first round of COVID were more likely to have a severe second bout. That is well established. Lingering symptoms, like fatigue, shortness of breath and brain fog may also persist, especially after a difficult first attack. But evidence is still unclear that links repeated infections with Long COVID.

So what to do next?

We should all forego our complacency, and actively try to avoid COVID-19, even though the disease appears to be less severe for most. We really don’t know the long term effects of repeated infection. That means going back to basics: washing hands often, avoiding crowds, if possible, staying home if ill, using Paxlovid, which has been highly successful in moderating the virus, and especially returning to wearing masks. No one wants to be mildly ill or to increase the health risk for others.

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Maureen Flavin Sweeney

By Leah S. Dunaief

Leah Dunaief

A lot of information about the weather has filled the airwaves in the last couple of weeks. We’ve been warned about huge rainfalls, flooding, perhaps some snow, even possible tornadoes have made the news.

One weather warning, in 1944, may have changed the course of history. And it all had to do with an ordinary Irish woman named Maureen Flavin Sweeney.

Ms. Flavin was a postal clerk, and on what happened to be her 21st birthday, June 3rd, reported for work on the midnight to 4:00 am shift, not to sort the mail but to record and transmit weather data. The location of the post office on a remote stretch of the northwest coast that jutted into the Atlantic, was ideal for monitoring the incoming weather and transmitting it along, although she didn’t know where her reports went.

Actually, they were part of the Allied war effort.

Eisenhower, who planned for two years, then led the assault on Normandy beach, originally wanted to launch 160,000 troops, some 12,000 aircraft and 7000 sea vessels on June 5. It was a time of low tides & full moon, which would aid access to the 50-mile stretch of beach. The invasion, to be successful, required clear skies for the planes and calm seas for the landing troops. At that time of relatively  primitive prediction, the Allies would have only a few days warning about the conditions.

Ms. Flavin and the others at the postal station now had to send in reports every hour rather than the previously arranged every six hours. They barely had finished one when they had to start the next.

When she looked at her barometer, she saw a rapid drop in pressure, indicating the strong possibility of approaching rain or stormy weather.

She forwarded that on to Dublin, as usual, and then it went to England’s meteorological headquarters in Dunstable. She then received a series of calls from a woman with a British accent who urged, “Please check. Please repeat!”

Ms. Flavin asked the postmistress’s son and the lighthouse keeper, Ted Sweeney, if her data were correct. They checked and rechecked. As a result of Ms. Flavin’s readings about the bad weather on the 5th and a patch of clearing  on the 6th, which would make it just good enough, Eisenhower and the other leaders postponed the invasion to the next day.

As a result of Ms. Flavin, soon after the war to become Mrs Sweeney, history records “D-Day: The 6th of June.”

Mrs. Sweeney died at 100 on December 17, in a nursing home. She only became somewhat aware of her roll in 1956, when officials moved the postal station to a neighboring town. Wider information emerged on the 50th anniversary of D-Day.

Mrs. Sweeney’s extensive obituary was printed in The New York Times on Friday, January 5 of this year, written by Alex Traub, and is the source of this footnote on history.

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Image from METRO

By Leah S. Dunaief

Leah Dunaief

Peace. That is what religions ask for, what billions of people across all nations pray for. Why in our family of humanity is that goal so elusive?

Perhaps this is a question only for theologians and  philosophers to answer. But now, in this glorious holiday season, when we speak and sing of Peace on Earth, we all articulate the ideal.

Many seek, and indeed can find inner peace. But the dream of peace, the kind of peace that is defined as lack of conflict and freedom from fear of violence between individuals and groups, has never been achieved. 

When will there be such peace?

The answer, it seems, is when all humans are of good will.

And what does that involve?

For starters, it requires acceptance and respect for the “other.” We need to see each other as humans with the same ambitions and desires and feelings. Rather than look down on and despise people who are simply different, we can be intrigued and interested in those differences and therefore in those who are different.

We can invite into our world those who are different from us in the way of skin color or appearance or beliefs. And if we can do so, we can see them as humans, just like us, and bigotry cannot exist. For we cannot look down on ourselves. If we are to do so, starting now, racism, antisemitism, anti-Muslim and every other sort of hatred of our neighbors disappears.

For there to be Peace on Earth, it must start with accepting the stranger, the “other” among us.

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METRO photo

By Leah S. Dunaief

Leah Dunaief

Tuesday we went to the funeral of another longtime friend. The chapel was overflowing with well wishers and mourners, and he deserved nothing less. He was a good man in every sense of the word: a good husband, a good father, a good grandfather, an inquisitive and caring person and a fun companion. He was a highly ethical man, never speaking against anyone who was not a government official, and it seems he enjoyed his life. 

He will be deeply missed.

Funny how life has a stark clarity during a funeral that then fades away when we are dealing with the chores of daily living. As the eulogies were read by his family, some stories making us laugh, others making us tear, we could see the tapestry of his life unfold. As we listened, we could not help but think of the unfinished paths of our own lives. How precious is each day with our loved ones, for they give the deepest meaning to our existence. What a miracle life is, and not to be wasted on some petty grievance or unnecessary anger. In fact, not to be wasted at all but to be lived to the fullest, with purpose and kindness: to be enjoyed even as we try to make our small world better regularly by doing the laundry.

Some day, each of us in that crowded room will die. What will be said of us, what amusing stories will be told, what terrible flaws did we have? How did we spend our so short lives on earth?

A poem was read at the funeral that spoke to this message, and as it was being read, almost every mourner’s head nodded in agreement. I share it with you here. It was called, “Dash,” by Linda Ellis.

I read of a man who stood to speak at a funeral of a friend. He referred to the dates on the tombstone from the beginning…to the end.

He noted that first came the date of birth and spoke of the following date with tears but said what mattered most of all was the dash between those years.

For that dash represents all the time they spent alive on earth and now only those who loved them know what that little line is worth.

For it matters not how much we own, the cars…the house…the cash. What matters is how we lived and loved and how we spend our dash.

So, think about this long and hard; are there things you’d like to change? For you never know how much time is left that still can be rearranged.

To be less quick to anger and show appreciation more and love the people in our lives like we’ve never loved before.

If we treat each other with respect and more often wear a smile…

Remembering that this special dash might only last a little while.

So when your eulogy is being read, with your life’s actions to rehash, would you be proud of the things they say about how you lived your dash?

As I sat listening to the eulogies, I recalled that I first learned of death shortly after I learned to read. I loved reading fairy tales, about princes and princesses and dragons and castles, and one of the stories ended with the death of a hero. I remember rushing into the kitchen in great distress and asking my mother and father, who, poor souls, were just eating what they expected to be a peaceful dinner, if there was such a thing as death? Further to the point, would they die? And why? They tried to calm me down, telling me soothing words, but clearly it was such an anguishing moment that I recall it to this day.

I’m supposed to be grown up now, and I accept the loss of loved ones with a broken heart. While death is a mystery, life remains a miracle.

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Bridal Shower, Pixabay photo

By Leah S. Dunaief

Leah Dunaief

This past weekend we traveled to Boston for a remarkable bridal shower. While I have been to many bridal showers before, this one was in honor of my first grandchild’s fiancee. Life is made up of firsts, of course, and we enjoy each of them in a special way. So up to Massachusetts we went for a new adventure.

I thought about my oldest grandson on the drive north. I still keenly remember the thrill of becoming a grandmother, of witnessing the beginning of the next generation. How lucky we grandparents are to reach that moment. I cherish a particular memory of having this adorable toddler running toward me as he entered the room, arms out for a hug, yelling “Grandma! Grandma!” on his arrival with his parents for a visit. Yes, I really was a grandma, I marveled then to myself, before scooping him up in my arms for a proper welcome. 

After all, it’s a rarefied club one can aspire to but one is powerless to join on one’s own.

And that little person, grown up now to a handsome man who gives bear hugs, is extending the family with a new chapter, and I was going to celebrate with his soon-to-be wife.

It’s a phenomenon, this marriage bit, when you think about it. Two people meet, they fall in love, decide they want to spend the rest of their lives together, and the next thing you know, a small army of strangers rush to hug you and welcome you to the family. That’s what happens at a bridal shower, even as the avowed purpose is to help the newly weds set up their home with small gifts. 

In addition, though, the two sides of the family get a chance to meet before the wedding, check each other out under joyful circumstances, then, no longer strangers, look forward to seeing each other at the nuptials. Maybe it’s not an accident that the shower is a women’s only affair. We have been known as the more critical of the sexes. If we have met and enjoyed the prospective extension of the family, the wedding will most likely go smoothly. Or so history might suggest.

Speaking of history, where did the idea of a bridal shower come from? 

Here are two stories. The first dates back to 16th century Holland, where gifts were given to the bride to prepare her for her new life as a married woman if either she was too poor to buy them herself or her father didn’t approve of the marriage and wouldn’t provide a dowry. One such instance involved a father who wanted his daughter to marry a wealthy pig farmer, but she insisted on marrying a miller, who was from a lower class. The girl’s friends then supplied gifts to help her start a home.

The second story is from the Victorian Era. Ladies in those days would gather to wish the bride well, bringing small gifts like notes and home goods. These would be put in an open parasol, and they would “shower” them over her.

Today the bride’s friends and female relatives gather to wish the new bride well and help prepare the home, and that is exactly what happened in the lovely club setting on the water that we attended. My grand daughter-in-law’s shower was organized by her friend since early childhood. The day was bright and sunny on the outside, and so was the mood inside. We met some of her friends, her immediate family, her aunts and cousins, and enjoyed a delicious brunch together. We traded stories of how some of the women had found their husbands, where they now lived, how many children they had, what sort of work they did, in short the usual conversations when strangers first meet. The hit of the day was the clever 1 1/2 year-old son of the hostess who roamed among us and tried to put his sneaker on my foot. Gifts were opened by the bride, pictures were taken, and then slowly we dispersed, promising to see each other at the wedding, now an extended family.

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Pixabay photo

By Leah S. Dunaief

Leah Dunaief

Let’s take a look at how the stock market is doing these days and what we should be doing with it. On the whole, this has been a good year for stocks. Through the end of October of this year, the total return for Standard & Poor’s 500 stock index is 10.7 percent. While recent high interest rates paid by banks, money markets and treasury bonds have sucked some money away from equities, we might be further encouraged to get out of the stock market. Every time the Federal Reserve has raised rates with the intention of cooling down inflation, savers with cash have benefitted. Even short term treasuries are currently offering north of five percent return.

Don’t do it, according to Jeff Sommer, who writes, “Strategies,” for the New York Times  Sunday Business. Here is why.

A new study gives further evidence that buying and holding is the surest way to profit on the stock market. Wei Dai and Audrey Dong of the asset management fund Dimensional Fund Advisors did the following research. They came up with 720 market-timing strategies, applied over different time periods and conducted on a variety of stock markets. Except in one anomalous instance, the “passive investing” strategy, meaning we buy-and-hold while minimizing costs to get as much market return as possible, is the best course to follow. We can do this through traditional mutual index funds or exchange-traded funds (ETFs that are like mutual funds but trade like stocks). Or we can make up our own mutual fund with a combination of diversified individual stocks. The idea is to just ride the ups and downs of the market. But in doing that, we have to accept losses some years for overall gains in the long run.

For example, in 1982, the Dow Jones Industrial Average, which simply put is where the price of a select 30 U.S. stocks are added together, hovered around 1000. Today, that number is 35,475. Over a period of 40 years, the Dow snapshot of the market increased 35 times. But that also means there were years when the Dow declined. If we needed to sell then, at a low point, in order to secure some cash, we might have had to take a substantial loss depending on when we had bought into the market.

“People are always trying to figure out ways of beating the market,” said Ms Dai, meaning selling high, then buying low. “But moving in and out of stocks isn’t a good way to do it,” she added. While we may be able to see a low, it is very difficult to foresee when to get back in at the beginning of a rise. And most of the big money is made during the early stages of a rise, when the market takes off and we are left to run after it.

Can individual stock picking be a winning strategy?  That is, at best, extremely rare. Those who remember him highly regarded Peter Lynch, who managed the Magellan Fund for Fidelity (1977-1990) and who seemed to sense potential winners consistently over the years. His fund became so successful, it would alone move the markets. 

“Most active fund managers can’t beat the market year after year,” according to NYT columnist, Sommers. And so his advice, along with the research from Dimensional’s latest study, tells us to just be average and float on the overall market through index funds.

Of course, if you want to add a little spice to your life, as I sometimes get the urge to do, you can do the following. You can follow the advice offered above for the bulk of your equity investments but keep a small percentage, just five to ten percent for stock picking. That way, if you succeed on ferreting out winners, you can beat the market a bit. You can bask in the shadow of Peter Lynch. But if you lose, the result isn’t too bad.

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METRO photo

By Leah S. Dunaief

Leah Dunaief

It’s Thanksgiving again, even though it seems it recently was. Yes, time flies, and soon it will be Christmas and then the end of 2023. When did that all happen? It seems we were worried about what would occur when we turned the corner into the next millennium. Now we are almost one quarter into the new century.

Some things don’t change, and that includes the core menu for Thanksgiving dinner. While I always try to add a new dish, just for the surprise value, still there are the turkey, stuffing and cranberry sauce, the roasted veggies and mashed sweet potato, and the wonderful pies. I have to confess that my family prefers broccoli with garlic and oil to string beans, so we have put our own twist on the basic meal.

Every year, after dinner, we remain at the dining room table and share with each other what we are most grateful for particularly in this year. This way, I get to catch up on what’s been happening in my family’s lives that I might not know about, and they do as well. 

But while Thanksgiving is always celebrated on the fourth Thursday of November, no two Thanksgivings are exactly the same because no two years are the same. For one thing, we are one year older. That changes our lives in minor and major ways as we move on.

For example, my granddaughter moved on this year and graduated from college. She now has her first full time serious job, is living on her own and tasting adult life.  

My oldest grandson and his fiancee have been lovingly planning their wedding for next year. The bachelor party has already happened, the bridal shower, postponed once because the bride-to-be came down with COVID, will take place next month, and the couple have picked out their permanent home. They already have a BBQ for the backyard. Dresses have been selected, tuxes prepared, the event location secured and the menu chosen.

Speaking of COVID, its frightening grip on our lives has significantly loosened, but only after three years. We live with it, we have upgraded vaccines to protect us, and it’s not the scourge it used to be.

But other events threaten. There are two terrible wars raging in the world, and we are privy to them through news reports and social media daily. We hear less of Ukraine and Russia these days because the Middle East has taken center stage. And while Russian athletes and opera singers were shunned if they didn’t denounce Putin, still that conflict was at a distance. The Israeli-Palestinian conflict has spilled over into our country and is closer to home. Antisemitism and anti-Muslim demonstrations have poisoned our airwaves and frightened our residents.

It is against this backdrop that we sit down to enjoy each other and the family meal. While we are grateful for all that we have and all that we are, we cannot entirely shut out the tragedies happening elsewhere in the world. If anything, current events cause us to pull our families closer for support and security.

As the calendar turns, we will be moving into another presidential-election year, and when we next sit down to Thanksgiving dinner, it will be on the eve of a new presidential term, whoever wins.

We are on the threshold of a decisive year ahead. Knowing that, and dealing with the divisiveness within our borders, lessens the usual frivolity of the holidays. Yes, we are certainly thankful for our turkey, for our lives and for each other. We should use that gratitude somehow to help make this a better world.

We can commit to pushing back against prejudice and hate wherever we find them. We can teach our children by our example, living what has ben described as American exceptionalism. We can abhor violence. And in the face of bigotry, we can care for each other and together pray for peace.

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