Opinion

Opinion Expressway

Winter is not the season when people normally spend more time outside, but for a nature enthusiast like me, there are wonders to discover regardless of low temperatures and less daylight. Amazingly enough, there is a warm-blooded creature that chooses this most inhospitable of seasons to reproduce. These days, at Bethpage State Park, I go looking for it despite the stiff breeze and a chill that dips into the teens. I seek a tiger, a "winged tiger." I am looking for great horned owls. 
My search began weeks ago. These owls begin their reproductive efforts by living up to another of their nicknames, hoot owl. At dawn and dusk, they hoot to a cadence of "don’t shoot owls, help owls" to stake out their territory and attract potential mates. Normally solitary predators, they begin hanging out together, even perching on the same branch, as they establish the pair-bond that will cement them for the next few months. 
Even for dedicated nature watchers, owls are difficult to find. Nocturnal by nature, during daylight hours, owls use their beautifully effective camouflage and secretive nature to become winged phantoms. 
However, years of experience, persistence and good luck have been an effective trio for me. Since great horned owls do not build their own nests, they often seek out those vacated by red-tailed hawks, and I know where to find them. 
The owls have shown a strong attraction to human-constructed, owl-nesting cones — structures built of tar paper, chicken wire and vines and placed in numerous trees throughout the park. Our resident owls have used them in about 70% of their nesting endeavors over the years. So, despite the weather, I check out the old hawk nests and nesting cones to search for our phantoms. I also inspect park areas with groves of conifers. With the barren branches of deciduous trees offering no concealment, owls love to vanish in the multiple needles of pines. 
A benevolent status quo had settled in over the recent few weeks, and I found two pairs of owls (one on the Red course, the other on the Yellow (Bethpage has five golf courses) staying in the same area — groves of white pines — perching close together. The pair on the Yellow Course at one point could not possibly have been any closer, short of actual mating. To demonstrate their commitment, they even deposited a pair of well-formed owl pellets at the base of their tree. The season was progressing at a pace dictated by nature. 
The owls have done their usual "change-of-scenery" activity — when they move from the place where I’ve seen them together to a potential nest site. I check out nests, both natural and artificial. I start in an area that had been owl-free this winter but does have a nesting cone. I see nothing as I wander around the grove of white pines. 
Then, a typical, and telling sound begins and quickly intensifies. A group of blue jays are mobbing something. They are experts at finding, verbally assaulting and locating . . . raptors! They did that work for me this time.
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I looked at the nest cone when I arrived, finding nothing, but as I wandered to the other side, I was greeted by one of the most beautiful and highly anticipated sights at the park — a pair of feathered tufts (the horns), gently swaying with the subtle, cold breeze. I’ve discovered my first great horned owl nest of the season. Less than a week later, the other pair also settled in to a nesting cone. A great start to 2022! 
Reader Jim Jones, the staff naturalist at Bethpage State Park, lives in Bayville.

Commentary

Expressway

OPWAY220213

OPWAY220206

These birds are worth giving a hoot about

It’s late in the summer and another workday on the Great South Bay is coming to a close. As I enter my seventh decade of existence, I’m grateful to God to be able to perform the physically taxing work of a bayman. 
As I begin to clean up the boat in the middle of the bay, I spot a school of bunker pinwheeling in my direction; the slapping, clapping noise reaches a crescendo, then wanes in a few moments as the group drifts away. I fire up the motor and start to head west toward the dock. It’s about a 5-mile ride back to Swan River and a mile up to reach my dock space in Patchogue. 
The sky is a bright blue this day with abundant sunshine filtering through puffy white cumulus clouds. A light north wind is blowing, producing a slight chop on the water that in turn seems to give this 20-foot boat an undulating feel while it’s gliding. I imagine a "magic carpet ride" would feel this way. It’s one of those days I could cruise for hours without end on this commute. 
We baymen are becoming an extinct breed, like the dinosaurs. It doesn’t pay enough anymore. There were hundreds of us. Every year, you see fewer. On a good day, maybe a dozen. After five decades of going out about four times a week, I still work year-round, including winter. This isn’t for the fainthearted, especially when it’s windy. I might see three comrades like me. 
As I approach the mouth of the river, there’s literally hundreds of snappers energetically popping in and out of the water. It looks as if somebody threw a thousand silver dollars across the outlet to the bay. Several fishermen are on the long Brookhaven Town dock, but nobody seems to be catching anything. Two teenagers are standing there, immersed looking at whatever is on their electronic device. Pathetic! 
As I idle north on the placid river, a couple of Monarch butterflies float by, their red-orange colors accentuated against the backdrop of a pure white cloud. Farther along, I spot a small turtle sunning itself on a protruding log, looking indifferent as my vessel cruises by. "Live free or die," I think to myself. 
Another half-mile down the river, the bulrushes and trees become more numerous as do the number and species of waterfowl. I call this area "the wild." Sometimes in passing through here, I get a fleeting feeling of being "one," connected with this small segment of the universe. This phenomenon seems to occur only when there’s a lack of activity around. 
The area is a veritable Audubon member’s delight. I observe the different ducks and sandpipers, geese, swans, egrets, gulls, crows and hawks. Occasionally, I’ll spot an eagle chased by three ospreys. Around dusk, thousands of red-winged blackbirds gather in small, disparate flocks and then seemingly disappear into the cattails. 
I slowly guide the stealth-gray boat into my dock space, secure the weathered lines and pile the day’s catch -- about half of the four bags I’d haul in during the heyday of the ’70s and ’80s -- onto the dock. Tired after my usual early start to a five- or six-hour run, I struggle to load my pickup truck. And a friend yells, "Hey, Mike, when are you going to retire?" "I can’t," I shout back. "I would miss the commute too much!" 
Reader Michael Stanions lives in Brookhaven.

OPWAY220109

A magic carpet ride on the Great South Bay

A recent Opinion piece on leaf blowers got me thinking about my favorite (and most difficult) college summer job. 
Initially, I had a great position, as the clerk in the record department of W.T. Grant in Hempstead, playing records and meeting young women. An opportunity arose, though, to work outdoors with lots of sun, abundant fresh air and chances to meet people – as a landscaper in Oceanside. 
My boss was literally larger than life – Buddy Ackerman, a former basketball star at the Brooklyn campus of Long Island University in the early 1950s who also played for the Knicks. He was an imposing man who ran a landscaping business for more than 40 years and employed two or three young men each summer to toil in backyards (and front yards) of the rich and famous – well, sort of – in Oceanside. 
Our crew ran lawn mowers and picked weeds on lawns all over the hamlet, but the best work happened on Thursdays, on Benjamin Road. That was the prime day, close to the weekend but not too close, so the grass had time to recover. Ackerman had almost every house on that street, and our job was to make each property look perfect – without the omnipresent riding mowers of today. This was 1964! (Mowers were quieter then, but still major polluters.) I’d walk back and forth across the huge, green yards in the hot sun, following the mower as I relentlessly pushed it through relatively tall, manicured grass. But that was not all. The beds all had to be cleared of weeds and stray grass, encouraged by friendly reminders from Ackerman -- "Hey, Scootch, you missed some over here. Get on it!" Gruff, with an eagle eye for detail, Ackerman surveyed each kingdom and made sure it was as he wanted. 
String trimmers? What were those? We cut the bed edges with long-handled shears and snipped with the hand clippers that Ackerman "suggested" each of us carry in a back pocket. He powered up the edger and trimmed the long straight lines on the sidewalk and driveways. And then came the cleanup. Leaf blowers? Fifty-seven years ago, we used quiet, environmentally friendly brooms . . . and shovels to pick up debris. "See that over there?" we’d be advised. "Get it and put it in your pocket!" At home each night, I emptied the day’s bounty into the trash. 
As each summer started, I readied myself for the lawns, and soon I was driving the truck and trailer, heading the crew, and now I was the one looking for stray weeds. Ackerman did other trimming jobs, fertilizing and weed killing, but he always managed to stop by and give "helpful" hints on how we could improve. 
In many ways, Ackerman helped me grow. Through the hard work, I learned cooperation, attention to detail, and to give back, as he did. He founded the Catholic Youth Organization basketball program at St. Anthony’s Church in Oceanside and worked for the church. 
Landscaping has changed over the decades. It’s more affordable with all the labor-saving devices, but bring back the brooms and hand trimmers, and let’s again hear the sounds of silence. 
Reader Wally Simola lives in Blue Point.

OPWAY211121

Years later, I still feel his impact

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"Do you have your water bottle?" asks my beautiful, loving wife of 44 years. "Don’t forget your water!" This is a familiar request and demand whenever I leave the house. Water indeed is important — especially when one is 69 years old and might forget the bottle and get stranded on Long Island without a 7-Eleven or deli to help properly hydrate. I doubt that would happen, but I do tend to not drink enough. This makes me think back to my youth. 
My mother was wonderful and caring, but in the early ’60s, when I left to play outside and be gone all day, she never said, "Don’t forget your water." Come to think of it, there was almost no way to bring water or buy a water bottle back then. How did I survive? 
I was lucky to live on Long Island my entire life — Bellerose, Syosset, Freeport, Syosset again, Brookville and Sea Cliff, all before the age of 19 (don’t ask). But ages 5 to 13 were the best, living 30 feet from Jericho Turnpike — it’s true — in Syosset-Muttontown Rural Farm District #1. We lived on nine acres, raising horses, sheep, ducks, chickens, and having a dairy farm of more than 50 acres next door was heaven. Some 60 acres of woods flanked us on the east side of our little farm. That’s where I tagged along with my dad, uncle and grandpa as they hunted rabbits, squirrels and pheasants. 
We lived in a small farmhouse in the front of the property, and my grandparents and aunt lived in a ranch house in the back. Life was simpler and good. The Long Island Expressway was still being built. Underhill Boulevard had just opened, and we had only seven TV channels. I served as the remote control, changing stations at my dad’s request. 
My third-grade class at Berry Hill Elementary School didn’t go to Lollipop Farm in Syosset for a class trip, like the other classes did, but instead came to little "Tanmor Farm," owned by my grandparents. The same place where I played imaginary baseball games by myself, throwing a ball against a barn and hitting stones with a stick into a neighboring sump. 
Soon, I was begging Mom to let me ride my bike up Jericho Turnpike to Underhill Boulevard into north Syosset. Can you imagine a mother letting a 10-year-old bike every day three miles into town to play? She gave in, and I met about 10 to 12 other guys for baseball, basketball, football or whatever the season was — and all without water! 
We played at the playground on Cold Spring Road and at Berry Hill and Calvert baseball fields, also without water. Not to say we didn’t get thirsty. When we did, we went to Bohack supermarket across from the firehouse and drank from the electric cooler. An oasis indeed — cold, free and satisfying. I never saw a water bottle or other way of getting water to the field until high school, where we had pump water tanks. I survived and even grew up, all without one water bottle. 
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Occasionally, we had money in our pockets and treated ourselves to a Coke or Pepsi (16 ounces!) for 25 cents at Bahnhof Deli on Jackson Avenue. If you only had a dime, you could get a 7.5-ounce bottle of Coke or 7-up at the vending machine at the gas station across from Bohack. 
What a fun, stress-free and safe place to grow up in: Syosset. Even without water bottles. 
Reader Gerard Porcelli lives in Farmingdale.

OPWAY211107

You can't water down these memories

The year was 1931. The broken-down truck loaded with building materials turned off Hempstead Turnpike onto a dirt road, then another and another until they reached Keller Avenue. For months, my grandfather Jack and his friends made the arduous trip from the Bushwick section of Brooklyn to his future patch of heaven in Elmont. 
They had cleared the land by hand and were ready to start building. But first they had to meet with the inspector. My grandfather — "Papa" — had checked and rechecked the map. 
The inspector, though, told him that the land he had cleared was not his. His property was the adjacent lot where he and his friends had dumped all the trees they’d cut down. The newly cleared land was up for sale, but my grandfather did not have the money to buy it. A friend, Joe Stallone, purchased it, and they all built his home first. It was three more years before they’d complete Papa’s house. 
My Uncle Pat was severely injured while installing telephone lines, and in those days, if you couldn’t work, you were let go. He was left with no income or medical coverage. So, he, his wife and two children moved in with my grandparents into their small apartment. My mother and aunts all quit school in the eighth or ninth grades to work in the Garment District to pay the medical bills. 
A year and a half later, Uncle Pat was back on his feet and working. After Papa’s two-story house had been completed, he decided he’d like a basement, one big enough to have parties and celebrate holidays. Uncle Pat was grateful for the family’s kindness, and if Papa wanted a basement, Uncle Pat would build him one. Nights and weekends, he single-handedly dug out the basement, one shovel at a time. It took him two years, and then he built a big table to celebrate the holidays. 
My grandmother Giovanna — "Nonna" to the kids — loved her new life in America after arriving from Sicily in 1912 at age 22. Whenever she returned home, she would kiss the kitchen floor. And then, in the 1930s, telephone service was installed. 
In the afternoon, Nonna would have coffee with a neighbor who began having "visions." She told my grandmother specific things about our family in vivid detail. At first, my grandmother was frightened but quickly thought she figured it out. She suspected her neighbor was eavesdropping on her telephone party line. The family, and even the phone company, insisted they would never have neighboring houses on the same line. 
So my grandmother made up three tales and had her daughters phone her on three days, relating Nonna’s invented stories. Sure enough, the neighbor would retell them to her. Nonna changed her phone line. 
Aunts and uncles enjoyed helping my grandparents. Uncle Joe, who lived in Franklin Square, loved to fish, and he’d bring eels to cook in Elmont, where most of the house numbers were out of order. For example, No. 3 was next door to 81. One day, a domestic disturbance two blocks away brought the police. Sirens blaring, they entered our block, searching for the correct house. 
Uncle Joe, who had been cleaning the eels, came out to see what the commotion was about. His arms were covered in blood, knife in hand, as he watched the police stop their car and emerge, guns drawn. My grandmother, in her best broken English, explained the situation and talked down the police. Thankfully, no one was killed. 
While growing up elsewhere in Elmont and in Franklin Square, I heard these stories about that house from relatives. Many family members are gone now, but they live on whenever I recall these tales of their early lives on Long Island. 
Reader Thomas Fasullo lives in Franklin Square.

OPWAY211031

OPWAY211017

Here's the delicious scoop on summer jobs

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A recent early-morning fire in West Hempstead displaced 30 residents. This hit home with me. I grew up there. 
That building held countless memories for me. From 1946 to 1979, my parents, Lillian and Carl Herman, owned the candy store there known as "Carl’s," at the corner of Woodfield Road and Eagle Avenue. It was a New York-style candy store, with nine daily newspapers; magazines and comic books; a counter with a soda fountain, ice cream and sandwiches; novelties; and toys. We lived in the two-bedroom apartment above the store. The Lakeview Long Island Rail Road station was steps away. The elementary school, then known as Eagle Avenue School, was a block away. 
The building was at the center of community life. It also included Henry the shoemaker, Frank the butcher, Eddie the upholsterer, and Bob’s Bar &amp; Grill. The building to the north housed Roochvarg’s Pharmacy, a delicatessen, and Wilson’s Liquors. My family was particularly close to the Roochvargs, and I have been married to a cousin of theirs for 51 years. The building to the west was home to a grocery store, Eagle Cleaners, and Hawkins Hardware. In the early 1950s, our neighborhood did not yet have a supermarket. The community’s needs were met by those small businesses. 
 I didn’t have a full sense of the roles that my mom and dad played in so many lives until a former customer, around 2010, created a Facebook group to remember the store. Hundreds of kids – I still think of them as kids – have recalled their experiences: buying candy after school, drinking egg creams, being told by my dad to either buy the comic books or put them down, and talking to my mom about things they couldn’t discuss with their own parents. 
 My parents employed trustworthy neighborhood teenagers and adults. Women worked the counter during the day, teens worked afternoons, evenings and weekends, and teenage boys assembled the Sunday newspapers. One counter girl, Phyllis Schultz, became a "Jeopardy!" champion. A newspaper boy became a mutual fund executive and appeared on the cover of "Money" magazine. In my teens in the early 1960s, I worked in the store, too. 
The store meant long days for my parents and a lot of routine. It was open 5:30 a.m. to 9:30 p.m. six days a week and eight hours on Sundays. There were special moments, too, like the Sunday in July 1960 when I stood awestruck as world heavyweight boxing champion Floyd Patterson entered to buy a newspaper. The Yankees’ Hector Lopez was a regular, as were Warren Covington, leader of the Tommy Dorsey Orchestra; Lincoln Lynch, Long Island chair of the Congress of Racial Equality; and Hank Williams, legendary coach and athletic director at Malverne High School. 
The apartments were small. My friend Dario’s family lived in the apartment above the shoemaker. My friend Jimmy’s grandmother lived above Frank’s Butcher Shop. I spent the first third of my life being self-conscious about my circumstances — thinking that my buddy Dario and I were the only kids who didn’t live the suburban, comfortable lives depicted on 1950s sitcoms, with the other families going on vacations. I spent the next third too busy with my own family to focus on my past. Now I am proud of my modest beginnings. 
The destruction of the building that housed all those memories has left me feeling empty, but the fond images cannot be erased. 
Reader Howard J. Herman lives in Great Neck.

OPWAY211003

After fire, all that's left are fond memories

After fire, all that's left are fond memories

Five decades ago, Northport was a fishing village. It had many fishermen, almost all of whom possessed boats. The largest ones were the oyster boats, followed in size by lobster vessels and then, finally, the small flat-bottom clam boats. All would head out in the early morning and not return until late evening. 
At age 5, my first fishing pole was literally a pole with a drop string. With parents who lived through the Depression, you learned to deal with what life gives you. The pole was made of bamboo, with its sections divided by "knuckles." And the fishing line was a mere string, not any type of fancy monofilament. The string had to be long enough to reach the water from the dock, usually around 20 feet. A hook would be carefully attached at the bottom of the string, and just a bit up from the hook was a separate weighted string. 
I’d walk to the dock carrying my pole and bucket, passing the grocery store that usually had baby carriages lined up outside — it was a safer world back then — while the mothers shopped inside. I’d pass the five-and-dime and stationery stores with their penny candies, then head straight to the bait shack, where I could purchase a box of sandworms that would give some kids a creepy-crawly feeling because they were creeping and crawling. 
Once at the dock, I’d take my place at the very end so I wouldn’t have to deal with boaters moving me out while tying up their skiffs. The dock had spigots that I used to fill up my bucket with water. My goal: Catch flounder and do it quickly. Nothing could be more embarrassing than seeing people walk past your bucket, stare in and see nothing. 
One day, I caught nothing but an eel. I decided to bring the eel home and feed it to my cat. I went to change clothes and tidy up (Dad’s shaving cream was great at removing fish smell from my hands). When I came back, I saw — to my horror — that Mom had taken the eel and was already frying it in a pan. "I love fried eel!" she exclaimed, looking at my shocked face. 
Eventually, I would get a used drag reel and pole. Casting with a drag reel would inevitably lead to what fishermen called a "bird’s nest" of tangled line on the reel. It would take time to untangle it and wasn’t worth the effort. Casting and tossing the pole behind you while trying not to hook a passerby or cast into a boat trolling out became a challenge. I later moved up to a spinner reel. 
By day’s end, I would have to head home for dinner, and I would always stop by the side of the bait shack, where the five-cent Coke machine would spit out a small glass bottle of soda. It was my treat for another day at the dock. 
  
Reader Matt Reuschle lives in Northport.

OPWAY210919

Recalling a kid sitting on the dock in the day

There’s been a lot of media attention paid to the fact that plastic waste is rapidly turning our oceans into landfills. Ocean plastic has also been the focus of legislation and other actions to address the problem. 
Although plastic pollution does pose a major and growing danger to marine wildlife, ecosystems, fisheries, and human health, plastic is, unfortunately, not just a threat to our oceans. Plastic is also a major threat to our climate and our collective future, a fact overlooked in most climate change programs, including the important new Biden climate agenda. 
The rarely discussed reality is that plastic is a significant climate threat. In fact, if plastic were a country, it would be the world’s fifth-largest greenhouse gas emitter, beating out all but China, the U.S., India and Russia. 
In the United States, plastic is made from a combination of chemicals and ethane, a byproduct of hydro-fracked natural gas. Plastics release greenhouse gases at every stage of their life, from extraction to refinement to production to transport to usage to disposal and beyond. In fact, scientists are questioning whether microplastic pollution may interfere with our oceans' ability to act as a crucial carbon sink. 
Worse, the plastic industry plans to triple production by 2050 and has announced major new plastic-related production facilities in Louisiana, Texas, North Dakota, Pennsylvania and Ohio. By 2050, the accumulation of plastic’s greenhouse gas emissions worldwide could reach over 56 gigatons — 10-13% of the entire remaining carbon budget. This planned expansion could undermine our ability to remain within the 1.5-degree Celsius global temperature rise scientists agree is necessary to avoid the worst ravages of climate change. In short, if the plastics industry succeeds with its planned buildout, it’s likely game over for climate. 
Fortunately, there are solutions. But we must begin by turning off the plastic tap to ensure that our society makes, uses, and disposes of less, rather than more, plastic. The Break Free From Plastic Pollution Act (Senate bill 984 and House bill 2238) introduced by Sen. Jeff Merkley (D-Ore.) and Rep. Alan Lowenthal (D-Calif.) does just that by establishing a national "bottle bill" like the one in New York, requiring recycled content in beverage containers, and pausing for three years the permitting of new plastic-related production facilities. We call on Congress to pass it without delay. 
This will be a major fight. Oil and gas companies are banking on the increase in plastic to make up for falling demand for fossil fuels as alternative energy becomes more widely available, affordable, and sought after and as electric cars and trucks become the norm rather than the exception. Simply put, plastic is Big Oil’s Plan B, a fact the industry openly acknowledges. It is clear the petrochemical industry needs to come up with a Plan C that will not hasten climate catastrophe. 
The Biden administration has made slowing climate change one of its top priorities, as it should be. Now we need it and our elected officials to see the big picture and act accordingly. Swift action to limit plastic production (and the industry’s planned expansion) and to phase out single-use plastics must be a mandatory part of the Biden administration’s climate change agenda. 
This guest essay reflects the opinions of Judith Enck, a former EPA regional administrator and president of Beyond Plastics, a national project based at Bennington College, and former Congressman Richard Ottinger, founder of Pace University’s Energy and Climate Center.

Guest Essays

OPENC210913

Climate change threat from plastic

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Lately I have been noticing how frequently "9:11" is displayed when I look at the time. I realize there are only two times a day when this happens, but given how often I unlock my phone or look at a clock, why do these three numbers seem to stare back at me more than others? I have thought about this a lot as the 20th anniversary of the terrorist attack approached and wonder if it could mean anything beyond sheer coincidence? 
So many of us knew someone who died or was forever impacted by that day. That morning, under a clear blue sky, I emerged at Penn Station from my Long Island Rail Road commute from Smithtown, and after a quick subway ride, I walked the block toward my office on Broadway off 44th Street. I grabbed a coffee, met a colleague and exchanged happy "good mornings." I noticed people staring at the Times Square Jumbotron. 
A video showed smoke billowing from a World Trade Center tower. A fire engine sped past us on Broadway, sirens blaring. Seconds later, we saw what turned out to be a second airplane crashing into the other tower. Our eyes locked for a second, unsure of what we had just witnessed. We entered our building, and the rest of the day unfurled in a surreal blur. 
When I reached my office, I realized what had happened. Televisions were tuned to the coverage of the burning towers. We could simultaneously see the actual smoke from our south-facing windows. Then the horrible moments came when the towers fell. Colleagues watching on TV screamed. The smoke overtook our view from downtown. A short time later, we were ordered to evacuate. 
With Penn Station closed, I walked with a colleague to another co-worker’s apartment on East 57th Street. Fighter jets flew above. Cellphone service came to a halt. Two hours later, I took the E train to Jamaica, where a midafternoon LIRR train awaited. The seats were filled, so I stood between cars. One man was caked from head to toe in ash from the towers. He stared ahead blankly. Not a word was spoken by a single passenger during the 90-minute trip. 
 When I finally arrived home, I hugged my wife and kids. My neighbor across the street came home a bit later, and I watched him exit his car. He was caked in ash like the LIRR rider. I went to check on him, and he broke down crying over what he experienced. I called my parents to let them know I was OK. My mom told me that Matthew O’Mahony — a Cantor Fitzgerald bond trader in the north tower — had died in the attack. He was a younger brother of one of my childhood friends who grew up around the corner in Centereach. 
I called two of my closest friends, one an NYPD detective and another an FDNY captain. They both lived in Huntington and worked near the towers. Thankfully, they were off that day. Both men spent most of the following weeks at Ground Zero, and the captain eventually developed Parkinson’s disease from breathing in the toxic dust. As this anniversary approached, I thought of him and his wife and family, who have endured all this with dignity. I also think of O’Mahony — "Matty O" — and his family and friends, who mourn him to this day. And I think of the weeks after the attack, when there was a true sense of unity, resolve, patriotism and support among all New Yorkers and throughout our country. It was a fleeting Camelot moment, one that now seems so far away. 
So maybe the meaning of the "9:11" appearing is a nudge. A nudge from the nearly 3,000 souls we lost. A nudge to remind us how we treated one another in the weeks after the attack. A nudge to encourage us, in their memory, through whatever small gestures we can muster, to recapture that unity. We owe them that, at the very least. 
Reader Dan Martinsen lives in Westhampton Beach.

OPWAY210911

What we owe those lost on 9/11

Like many Long Islanders, my stomach is usually tied up in knots this time of year, triggered by the annual transition from a carefree summer vacation to the anxious excitement of the back-to-school season. Many of you may be feeling this now. But not me, not this time. This is the first September that I won’t be part of this annual ritual since nursery school. When you’ve been doing something every year for more than five decades, it’s a hard habit to break. Wake me up when September ends. 
Technically, this is the second academic year following my retirement as the Great Neck Public Schools technology director, but it’s my first on the sidelines. Last fall, I resumed working there part time to help implement their reopening plan and provide technical assistance for remote education. Retirement amid a pandemic felt like I was abandoning the school community I had served for so long, so I was grateful for the opportunity to assuage my guilt and continue to contribute at a critical time. A year later, my absence feels conspicuous. 
My belly is calm because I’m insulated from this seasonal change, but my thoughts are not. I feel a profound kinship with Long Island students, parents, teachers and administrators as they return to school. I am concerned for them given the current circumstances, but I’m also reliving the excitement and promise of the dozens of school re-openings I experienced during my childhood, as a parent and as an educator. 
I don’t remember my own first day of school, but I vividly recall my first school day as a teacher in Elmont. That was when Newsday and I first became inextricably intertwined. A photo of my 22-year-old self setting up a computer in Covert Avenue Elementary School graced page 7 of the Sept. 4, 1984 issue. It is a cherished keepsake because it declared computers as a new basic subject and because it marked the launch of my 36-year career as an educational technology leader. 
Of course, I can’t forget the first day of school for my own kids. It was in 1998 and 2000 when I helped them onto buses for their first day of kindergarten at George A. Jackson Elementary School in Jericho. I often take walks past the school and can still picture them as they looked then in their new school clothes, carrying their excitement and colorful backpacks. 
But I’ve spent the most first days of school helping Great Neck South Middle School sixth-graders find their lockers and classrooms. It wasn’t part of my job description, but it was rewarding and joyful nonetheless. That’s what September has always meant to me — the renewal of back-to-school experiences reflected in these quintessential Long Island communities. 
This year, I will be marked absent on the 2021 school calendar, but I will be present in spirit. I’ve learned many lessons over the years from school, not from textbooks, tests or technology, but from classmates, colleagues and connections. Learning is a social experience, and the first day of school renews that essence of collaboration for each generation. Even the challenges of a pandemic cannot dampen its significance. 
I appreciate this back-to-school season from a different perspective now, one without butterflies. Embrace these moments today and you’ll always cherish the memories. 
Reader Marc Epstein lives in Jericho.

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Reflecting on a September without school

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Schools likely will reopen this month with mask wars and curriculum wars. To mask or not to mask should be driven by science; how we present curriculum should be driven by best teaching practices. Unfortunately, both are now driven by politics. Political perspectives should have a place in discussions and debates about the overall direction of education. They should not override the findings of science or the art of teaching. 
Many adults, especially parents and community members now showing up at local school board meetings, have stepped into the quagmire created by viewing education through a narrow political lens — a lens with no room for observing opposing views. This approach is harmful to students in a democracy morally responsible for their education. Young people need the skills to fairly and carefully consider and evaluate different perspectives. They need a traditional teaching tool: critical thinking skills. 
I enjoyed a 34-year teaching career in Central Islip and interacted with teachers, students and policymakers as president of New York State United Teachers. These interactions continue in my role collaborating with Speak Truth To Power, the curriculum arm of Robert F. Kennedy Human Rights. Too often in these situations, critical thinking has been squeezed out of the decision-making process. 
Consistently applying critical thinking skills serves us all well and must be reinforced as a tool for the next generation of thought leaders. Young people need to develop the ability to gather and evaluate information in order to make value judgments about the significant issues facing society today. Foreign policy, the social safety net, voting rights, how we apply or interpret the Constitution — these are among the issues about which today’s students will need to develop policy tomorrow. 
This is most important in the current overcharged atmosphere surrounding issues of race and policing, and topics like critical race theory and the events of Jan. 6. In many communities — including my own in Smithtown — school board meetings have deteriorated into shouting matches aimed at preventing others from expressing their views. Students need the tools to avoid mimicking these behaviors so they can act responsibly based on facts, not emotions. 
There is no more important area to develop and apply these critical thinking skills than human rights. Issues central to our Bill of Rights — freedoms of speech, press, religion, assembly and the right to bear arms, among others — need to be approached in a constructive and critical way. Likewise, the Universal Declaration of Human Rights, approved by the United Nations in 1948, outlines rights equally guaranteed to all "without distinction"; students need to carefully weigh how society has applied or denied these rights. 
The path to a more just society requires that critical thinking skills are a central element in a sound basic education. To safeguard the rights we all enjoy in a democratic society, we must prepare our young people to be constructively critical in an open-minded way — a way that invites discussion and debate (in all disciplines) before formulating, and often needing to reformulate, opinions. This requires a thought process that listens to both sides and weighs the evidence, not just the noise. This is especially true as we ask students to carefully develop their own views on our basic values and the rights that protect those values. 
Critically thinking about what we value and our fundamental human rights is, in the end, critical to our democracy. 
This guest essay reflects the views of Richard C. Iannuzzi, a trustee at Robert F. Kennedy Human Rights and former president of New York State United Teachers.

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Critical thinking skills are vital for students

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&quot;Don't even think of it&quot; I said to my amorous husband, snuggling up to me as the sound of the TV&nbsp;upstairs declared we weren't home alone. Billy and I both laughed. 
 We’re not teenagers, we’re baby boomers. Having sold our house in Bellmore more quickly than anticipated, and with four more months before retirement and our out-of-state relocation, we moved in with my brother and sister-in-law in Seaford two months before the pandemic hit. 
 Living with others is an adjustment. We all yearn for our own space. But privacy wasn’t the issue; it was food. 
 &quot;How do dinners work?&quot; my friend Claudia asked. 
 Joey and Pat ate at retiree time: early. Billy and I ate when our commuting schedules dictated: late. 
 We lived on the lower level of their high ranch: two bedrooms, full bath, family room, laundry room and garage. Joey and Pat, empty nesters, occupied the upstairs. In anticipation of our arrival, they’d bought a bigger TV and new headboard for our bedroom and upped their already beefy cable package. Sweet deal. The most commonly shared space was the eat-in kitchen. 
 During Joey’s birthday celebration with his children and grandchildren at the house, the question was posed at the kitchen table, &quot;How’s it working out?&quot; 
 Pat jumped up and opened the refrigerator door. &quot;My only complaint,&quot; she said with a big grin, &quot;we have no room! Even the freezer!&quot; 
 My husband and brother are great cooks. Billy likes to keep a stocked refrigerator — and keep Costco and BJ’s Wholesale Club in business. Joey likes to shop daily at smaller local merchants. Different approaches, same outcome — amazing meals. 
 While living in the &quot;Seaford Suites,&quot; Billy and I fell into a routine, driving to Delaware every other weekend to visit our new home. It wasn’t unusual on our way back to Long Island on Sunday nights to receive a text from Joey: &quot;I made chicken soup,&quot; or something equally delicious to come home to. We responded in kind, cooking Sunday dinners on the alternate weekends. Chef Billy’s lobster macaroni and cheese was a favorite. 
 Living at the Seaford Suites felt like a five-star Airbnb with a dash of my childhood home. Some weekends, Joey, Billy and I (all early risers) would sit around the kitchen table having a leisurely breakfast, Joey telling family stories from before I was born. There’s a 12-to-15-year age difference between my three siblings and me. I was 8 when Joey moved out, so it was lovely having this time together. 
 Billy and I couldn’t have had more accommodating and generous landlords, though that term is a misnomer, as they wouldn’t let us pay for a thing. However, there was mention of compensation. 
 &quot;Of course you can live with us!&quot; Pat had said when we’d asked. &quot;But it’ll cost you some pierogies,&quot; she laughed, referring to Billy’s legendary homemade Ukrainian potato dumplings, his late mother’s recipe for pedahehs. 
 It always comes back to food. 
 Reader Paula GanziMcGloin now lives in Millsboro, Delaware

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At 'Seaford Suites,' it's all about food

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