Consider sailors facing offshore knockdowns or transiting inlets with breaking waves. For me, that knockdown occurred aboard a friend’s Pearson (named Sauvage) while I helmed her offshore in big seas and fierce winds. My bad steering and our main sail control device caused Sauvage to roll severely onto her side. Fortunately, an instinctive response on both our parts quickly put her back on her feet with only damage to our pride and underwear.

Such frightening, awe-inspiring, experiences indelibly shape sailors’ future performance. Surviving these challenges hones skills that can be called upon again, proving the undeniable effect of experience.

The idea of a stable, immutable “self” is seductive, offering comfort in a chaotic world — a fixed “I” untouched by life’s triumphs and tragedies. This manifests in phrases like “I’m just not that kind of person,” or “That’s just the way I am.” However, this perspective is a comforting fiction that collapses under neurological, psychological and philosophical scrutiny. We are, inescapably, the sum total of our life experiences; our identity is not a sculpture but a river, continuously shaped by and meandering through every event from birth to death.

Biologically, the brain is not a pre-wired, static organ but a dynamic landscape sculpted by neuroplasticity. Every sensation, learned fact, emotional shock (including knockdowns!), and practiced skill physically alters the brain’s structure. Synapticconnections strengthen with repetition, new neural pathways are forged in learning, and unused connections wither away. The New York City Uber driver who memorizes the city’s labyrinthine streets develops a larger hippocampus. The violinist who practices for decades has a motor cortex tailored to their fingers’ movements.

Traumatic experiences can rewire the amygdala and prefrontal cortex, leaving lasting imprints on fear response and emotional regulation. The brain does not merely process experience; it becomes its experiences. To suggest a core self exists independently of this ever-changing substrate is to advocate for dualism — a “ghost in the machine”— that modern neuroscience does not support.

Psychologically, experience is equally definitive. Foundational theories of developmental psychology that I recall from an undergraduate elective, from Piaget’s cognitive stages to Erikson’s psychosocial stages, are built on the premise that we are constructed through our interactions with the world. A child consistently nurtured and encouraged develops trust and autonomy; one criticized or neglected may internalize shame or self-doubt.

These are not preordained traits but forged conclusions from countless micro-interactions. Our beliefs, values and prejudices are not downloaded at birth. They are absorbed from parents, culture, friends, and media. A person raised in a homogeneous community may hold certain assumptions, radically challenged and reshaped when exposed to new people and places. The “self” holding those initial assumptions is fundamentally altered by new experience, proving our worldview is not a fixed lens but a collage assembled from everything we have sensed.

A simple thought experiment illustrates this: Imagine identical twins separated at birth. Genetically indistinguishable, they possess the same raw potential. One is raised in a stable, intellectually stimulating home, the other in poverty and instability. To claim their “core selves” would be the same is absurd. One might become a confident academic, the other a resilient survivor, their personalities, aspirations, fears, and cognitive patterns diverging dramatically based solely on their lived histories. Their identities are products of their distinct journeys.

The counterargument points to temperament or genetic predispositions. It’s true we are not blank slates; we enter the world with certain biological wiring. An infant may naturally be more introverted or irritable. But temperament is not destiny, it is the raw material upon which experience works. A cautious temperament, met with supportive parenting, may develop into a prudent adult. The same temperament instead shaped by trauma could solidify into anxiety. Genetic predisposition is the seed, but experiences are the soil, sun, rain and storms that determine the tree’s final form.

Clinging to the fallacy of an immutable self is intellectually dishonest and existentially limiting. It allows us to abdicate responsibility for our own growth with excuses like, “I can’t change who I am,” or, “What does something from decades ago matter?” It fosters prejudice by essentializing others, seeing flaws or differences as inherent rather than products of unique journeys. Conversely, embracing the idea that we are our experiences is empowering and humbling. It means we are never finished. Every new book, conversation, failure, and act of courage participates in the creation of who we are becoming.

We are walking histories. Every memory, scar, lesson learned and joy felt is a thread woven into the tapestry of our identity. To claim there is a “true self” hiding behind this tapestry is to miss the point the tapestry itself is the self. We are not statues revealed by the chisel of experience; we are the cumulative layers of the chisel’s marks. Our life experiences are not merely events we pass through; they are the very substance from which we are made.

To believe otherwise is to ignore the beautiful, relentless, and ongoing construction that becomes “us.”

erialJohn Cronin is a Shelter Island Reporter columnist.

The post Guest Spot: The tapestry of self appeared first on Riverhead News Review.

But I don’t always look on the bright side. To be honest, when things turn to worms, my immediate reaction is to stomp and slam cupboard doors, cursing my bad luck and snapping at the nearest living thing — any person, animal or even plant. (Though I do try to be nicer to my plants, because unlike people or pets, they don’t snap back.)

However, after I get that initial reaction out of my system, I default to the “bright side.” Things have turned to a bucket of worms? Good. Let’s go fishing. Life gave me lemons? Yay, let’s make lemonade.

That’s what happened in the IGA parking lot while talking with a friend. I heard the squawks of dozens of seagulls and,of course, I looked up. When I looked at my friend to say, “Don’t look up!” a seagull, or perhaps seven, let loose. On me. Direct hit. Hair, back, front, head to toes. People tried to help me but all that stuff does is smear. I drove home, cursing the whole way, wrapped in IGA grocery bags and threw out those clothes on my way to the shower.

How is there a bright side to being a target of an aerial poop bomb? Because it could have been worse. Way worse. Just a splitsecond before the assault I was gazing upward, mouth open, talking. Are you picturing it? Obviously, that’s the target they were going for. But the lemon-icing on the bird splat is that my friend bought me a souvenir T-shirt covered with fake seagull droppings. Yay me!

Often, when I force myself to look on the bright side, things turn out better than I’d ever expect, or dare I say deserve, which is what happened with me and Bruce Springsteen. Yes. That Bruce Springsteen.

He was on his “Born to Run” concert tour, and we got free tickets through Coecles Harbor Marina because Billy Joel was their customer. After a threeplus- hour drive to the Meadowlands, we were to grab our tickets at will-call. Since the tickets were free, I was expecting nosebleed seats, but that was okay because, Bruce plus Free equals Jackpot! But “Yay me!” turned into a bucket of worms real fast when our tickets were not at will-call. And the show was sold out, which was probably a blessing because even the cheap seats were hundreds of dollars.

Who knows if it was name-dropping “Coecles Harbor” or “Billy Joel,” but after a few minutes we were handed off to a lady with a clipboard and a walkie-talkie who said, “Follow me.” I wiped my tears and we followed as she led us not up, but down, down, down, to the rows of seats in a dark area behind the stage. By then I was sputtering, “Forget this! Let’s go home!”

My companion tried to calm me by saying, “Calm down!” (In recorded history, when has saying “Calm down!” ever worked?)

I tried though, telling myself that the bright side was a nice ride from Shelter Island to New Jersey. And back. Yay me.

And just like that, things got brighter as we followed Miss Walkie-Talkie past the back of the stage to the floor level, finally stopping in the high-rent district, at two front-row seats just feet from the stage. So close I could look up Springsteen’s nose and by the end of the concert, when he was drenched and spraying sweat, it landed right on me. I kid you not. I could have reached out and touched his boot if it wasn’t for the mean-looking security guard who was already keeping an eye on me. What started out as a bummer turned into a great night.

A more recent “bright side” event happened last month after I’d donated a purse to a thrift shop. I’d swing through every week and it bothered me enormously to see it still there, forlorn and rejected by other thrifters. Finally, I paid the stinking $5 and bought it back. So what’s the bright side of that, paying again for a purse I didn’t want and no one else did either?

Tucked inside was a hundred-dollar bill I’d forgotten that I’d stashed into the deepest pocket when I bought the purse (the first time). Yay me! Of course, my “bright side” cheated some other thrifter out of their “Yay me!” moment, but come on, they had three weeks.

If there’s a lesson here, I guess it’s to try to always look on the bright side. And also in the deepest pockets.

Joanne Sherman is a Shelter Island resident and longtime contributor to Times Review Media Group.

The post Guest Column: The bright side appeared first on Riverhead News Review.

When I grew up in Riverhead, as a son of two Polish immigrants, football wasn’t something I was interested in playing. I played PAL soccer early on, and then got into little league baseball and CYO basketball as I grew older. But something in me was always curious about the sport because of the town I grew up in.

Back then, every Saturday during the fall, the stands at Coach Mike McKillop Memorial Field were packed with spectators. Cow bells echoed down Pulaski Street as the football team crashed through the Blue Waves banner and onto the field to the tune of ACDC’s “Hells Bells.” Being on the football team was a big deal. 

I remember watching crazy legs Eddie Wansor at quarterback, the bruiser Mike Owen at halfback and soft-hands Mike Heigh at tight end in 2003 when they won the Suffolk County championship at Stony Brook University. I was in the stands — watching with pride and admiration. Longtime radio voice of the Blue Waves Pat Kelly took me along to watch the game, as I was very good friends with his son. 

It was mind-boggling for me to see the support this town gave its football team. It wasn’t just family in the crowd at Stony Brook University. It was regular town residents, alumni, students — anyone with any connection to Riverhead, they were there. That’s how much it meant to everyone. There’s nowhere else they’d rather be on a Saturday. 

Though I played some football in middle school to try to be like my idols, being so new to the sport, I decided it wasn’t for me. I continued watching the games, seeing guys like Miguel Maysonet, Tyler Gilliam, Andrew Smith, Timmy Velys, Rasheen Moore and countless others find success.

So, my junior year in 2007, I decided to give it another go. It was the best decision I ever made. The memories I made that season will last a lifetime. 

Even though I was a newcomer, I was brought right into the brotherhood. There’s no team sport like football. Everybody has a role, from the headliner to the last person on the bench. It was the first time I understood what it meant to be on a team.

We practiced hard. Coach Leif Shay was strict and expected nothing but perfection. If one person on the team messed up, we all paid for it. We had to hold each other accountable. If you were on time, you were late — a philosophy I still hold in my life today. 

The 2008 group I was a part of was coached up since they were kids. They already built the foundation from youth football. It was led by parents who were committed and all in. By the time they were all on varsity, we had a shot at greatness.

I wanted nothing more than to be like my idols and win a Suffolk County championship. As the wins began to stack up, the potential of doing just that became a reality. We not only won the Suffolk County championship that season, but we were the first team in Riverhead history to win a Long Island championship.

When I tell you we were rock stars, that was an understatement. When we won it all, there were thousands of people at the Liberty Bell at Pulaski Street elementary school to ring off the 42 points we scored on Elmont. As we pulled up with a police escort, people were honking their horns, cheering, crying — it was like a movie. All the blood, sweat and tears paid off. Those guys will be my brothers for life, and it was only my first season.

Riverhead went on to win two more Suffolk County championships in 2012 and 2013.

The next big group was supposed to come through, but then COVID hit, austerity measures shocked the district, cutting sports and forcing parents to leave. We’ve been picking up the pieces ever since. 

It’s been a while since Riverhead was the team to beat for football, but we’re a football town. We’re due.

The coaches are committed to bringing that back from the bottom levels to the top. There are champions at every level coaching the youth. When I speak to the parents at those lower levels, they’re committed. Those groups of parents and kids need to lead the charge and not leave the district. The talent is here. They will become those idols for the next generation and so forth. 

But even though there have been championships won in PAL football, some parents have still decided to move based on the varsity team’s performance. Why not be the change and lead the charge to bring this program back to its glory days? Winning a championship with your friends will always mean more than winning a championship with complete strangers. 

It takes a village to turn things around. And we have it. Anyone with any association with Riverhead will tell you — we all bleed blue.

The post Riverhead is a football town, and it’s time to reclaim that legacy appeared first on Riverhead News Review.

Of course, government shutdowns are never good, but we’ve been through similar events and many of us — unless we’re not being paid — have become a little “Ob-la-di, ob-lada” about them.

But during one particular shutdown, pandemonium ensued. At least on Shelter Island. It was the fall of ’95, right before Thanksgiving. On the first day of the shutdown, Shelter Island was thrown into turmoil, but not over what was happening in the government. Our own version of “shock and awe” occurred at 2 Grand Ave., aka Louie’s Barber Shop, on Nov. 14, 1995, and I had a front-row seat.

Back then,I did my writing in an office next to Louie’s. Not just next to it, but attached. My space and the barber shop were like conjoined twins.I’m sure Louie paid no attention to what happened at my half of the conjoinment, but I never stopped watching what was going on over there. And during that government shutdown,that shock and awe was compounded by calamity, chaos and some downright shaggy-looking men.

My window faced the sidewalk to the shop and I’d stare out, mulling, because that’s what writers do when we don’t feel like writing. However, staring and mulling did help me conjure up a murder mystery and about four newspaper columns — five if we count this one.

The shutdown started on a Tuesday, always a busy day at a barber shop that’s closed on Sunday and Monday. I sat at my desk, mulling, and watched an older gentleman walk toward the barber’s door. Nothing unusual — it happened at least a dozen times a day.

But this guy stopped at my window. I assumed he was waiting for someone to exit the shop. But no one did. He just stood there as if frozen, arms dangling by his side, eyes wide, mouth hanging open, like, “Huh?”

It was as if he was pretending to be a statue. But why? Only little kids do that, not old men. Then it dawned on me: He wasn’t pretending to be a statue. This guy was having a stroke.

Fortunately, I’d read an article about what to do if someone had a stroke. It was the Reader’s Digest condensed version, further condensed because Inever finished the article. But a little help is better than none, right?

Before I could get to the door another man showed up and as it turned out, medical intervention was not necessary. The first man spontaneously recovered and started talking and pointing at the front of the barber shop. Then they stood still and stared, both of them, frozen, but I wasn’t falling for that again. After several minutes, they left.

Of course I went outside to see what had caused that near stroke and collective consternation. There it was, handwritten, all caps: BARBER SHOP CLOSED!!! ON VACATION!!! SEE YOU IN THREE WEEKS!!! While the rest of the country dealt with the government shutdown, Shelter Island was rocked by its own crisis. Each day, progressively shaggierlooking men walked up that narrow sidewalk. They would stop and stare in disbelief. They just couldn’t get over it.

Sometimes they’d open the screen and try the door knob. Still locked. One or two of them even rapped on the glass pane. Hard! The knock of desperate men whose wives told them at the end of Octobwwwwer to “please!” get their hair cut.

Some were accompanied by their wives. That first guy, the one who didn’t have a stroke? He showed up the next day with his wife and pointed to the sign. She had her hands on her hips and her mouth was drawn into such a tight, angry line, her lips disappeared. (Mulling writers notice those things.)

When her lips reappeared, I could read them. She said, “Ya big dope! I told ya last week to get your hair cut. But did you listen? Nooo.”

That government shutdown lasted four days, but here the pandemonium continued. For three weeks I watched as dozens of men stopped short at the door of the barber shop. Some came a couple times a day. A few cursed. Groups of them would gather in a row, like sullen crows on a fence. Unshorn and forlorn, they’d stare at that sign. They’d wander off only to reconvene the next day and the day after that.

Following that short shutdown, the government went into another, even longer shutdown. But by then, it didn’t matter here because the lights were on at 2 Grand Ave. Louie was back and, once again, all was right with the world… At least our world.

Joanne Sherman is a Shelter Island resident and longtime contributor to Times Review.

The post Guest Column: Shutdown appeared first on Riverhead News Review.

When I started reporting with The Suffolk Times nearly a year ago, I learned about the island’s status as a hamlet of Southold Town — and I was intrigued to say the least.

How could an island that you have to travel through another state to get to belong to New York? What is the community there like? How does it factor into the work of the town and the state?

The answers, I discovered, are rooted in centuries-old politics. Its unusual jurisdiction dates back to the Duke of York’s 1664 land patent, which eclipsed Connecticut’s own 1662 charter claims to the 2,688-acre island. Its definitive New York status wasn’t settled until 1879.

I finally had the opportunity to visit recently, and let me tell you — it’s a journey.

My roundtrip journey took nearly nine hours of travel by car and two separate ferries — the Cross Sound Ferry from Orient to New London, Conn., where I then caught the Fishers Island Ferry — for roughly two hours spent on the island.

The midday ferries I boarded were light on riders, with about a dozen people topside to and from the island. Travelers sat on cushioned benches with wooden backs.

The trip is a hike, one that I commend Fishers residents for making to Long Island when they must — be it for DMV appointments or doctor’s visits.

I definitely stuck out like a sore thumb once I disembarked in the community of 250 “year rounders.” In the summer, that population swells to between 2,000 and 3,000 residents.

Fishers Island is a serene world unto itself, with picturesque homes and greenery greeting you as you step off the ferry. A closer look at the island’s western locales revealed a mix of paved, gravel and “paper” roads — those you won’t find on a map but are traversed by neighbors in the area.

Throughout the island there’s a mix of houses you’d see on your block and others to ogle during a late-night Zillow deep dive. There’s no mail truck, so residents head down to the post office to catch up with neighbors and grab their mail.

You won’t find classic commercial stores like Walmart or Target, so locals shop the island’s sole grocery store, Village Market, for daily essentials or to grab a sandwich.

Beyond the grocery store, the island has one bar — the Pequot Inn — an American Legion post, a school with an average graduating class size of six students, a doctor’s house in lieu of a hospital, the Henry L. Ferguson Museum, a community garden, a community center, a library and a theater. 

The community is a microcosm of Southold life, with generational residents and those who moved to the area for the peace and quiet alike. Land preservation and housing are paramount issues.

Many residents wear several hats, helping out neighbors, getting involved in community matters, volunteering with the fire department and more.

All of that to say, Fishers fascinates me to no end — even if it takes nine hours and two ferries to get there.

The post Reporter’s Notebook: Fishers Island, Southold’s most remote hamlet appeared first on Riverhead News Review.

“This isn’t going to end well,” I was warned by my nearest and dearest.

I’d volunteered to substitute for an ailing Sunday school teacher, minding her class of 5- and 6-year-olds. All I had to do was teach kids to cut out paper angels with blunt scissors. Come on. How hard could that be?

Nearest and dearest was concerned because at that time our boys were in high school, so I hadn’t had recent experience with little ones. “It’ll be fine,” I insisted. “Our kids survived.”

He walked away muttering, “Was that because you were their mother or in spite of it?”

Since the jury was still out, I took the high road, ignoring the comment.

Performance anxiety kicked in that Sunday morning when I was handed a three-page lesson plan.So much for cutand- paste.Turns out these kids didn’t go to Sunday school to make paper angels. They were there to learn about holiness and saintliness. From me. And for that hour, 13 wee souls were in my hands.

I expected this baker’s dozen would march in, single file, like good onward Christian soldiers, but they tumbled in and never once did I get all the soldiers’ bottoms on their little chairs at the same moment.

Instructions said I should start with the Lord’s Prayer, but as I did, Nolan began to cry. Joleen told me it was Nolan’s week to lead the prayer. That was OK by me, so I put away my prayer cheat sheet. (Just kidding, I know it, calm down.)

Every kid has their own version of this prayer. Nolan wiped his eyes and runny nose on the back of his hands and holding them solemnly together, snotty little fingers pointed towards the ceiling, gave us his: “Our Father has a car in heaven …”.

It got worse but I let him finish, then, recited the prayer the proper way. Thirteen blank faces stared up at me. Clearly they preferred Nolan’s version.

“Today’s lesson is about the good Samaritan,” I told them and read the parable, which had been paraphrased to be more easily understood by youngsters. But whoever did the paraphrasing didn’t know squat about youngsters or that certain words cause pandemonium. It was the part of the parable where the man is stripped of his clothes and left naked at the edge of the road that the room exploded with screams, giggles and mayhem.

“Naked! Oh, gross!” Completely naked or only partly naked? These kids wanted all the sordid details and it became a rowdy competition to see how often each could screech the word “naked” in a sentence.

So I lied and said that the robbers let him keep his underwear and that calmed everyone down.

I continued reading, but no one listened. Three of the boys were engaged in a contest to see who could flick spitballs across the room into the straw collection basket. Fancy was busy braiding Ruby’s hair and several of them were trying to see how far back they could lean in their chairs without tipping completely backwards and cracking open their tiny, fragile skulls. Attention focused on me again at that part of the parable where the good Samaritan put his clothes on the semi-naked man.

“Does that mean now the good Dalmatian is naked?” Lucille asked. They assured me and each other that under no circumstances would they ever walk naked down the street leading a donkey. I lied again and said he was wearing long johns.

The Golden Rule lesson went haywire because every kid wanted to shout their favorite: Wash your hands after the bathroom. Don’t put the kitten in the dishwasher again. If Mom says no, ask Dad.

“Those are all good,” I said, “but they’re not the Golden Rule. Who knows it? Don’t shout; please raise your hands.”

Elvira raised her hand and shouted, “Do under others what they do under you.”

I explained that Elvira was kind of correct, but it was too late. She was already crying because Nolan called her stupid, then Ruby cried because Elvira was her best friend.

“Be quiet!” I shouted. Twentysix frightened eyes widened and 13 chins trembled, but God bless them, they got quiet. So quiet the teacher from the next room checked if we were all right.

After she left, I handed out the blunt scissors and taught them how to cut out angels. When Sunday school was over they were smiling and in my book, that’s a win.

Author’s note: The following year I became their weekly Sunday school teacher and – so far – they’ve all survived. Was it because of me or in spite of me? The jury’s still out.

Joanne Sherman is a resident of Shelter Island and a longtime Times Review columnist.

The post Column: Tales out of (Sunday) school appeared first on Riverhead News Review.

As a recent college graduate interested in journalism, I was excited when Times Review editors asked me to help create a newsroom planning calendar. The first step would be reading a year’s worth of newspapers, casting around for anniversaries, deadlines and upcoming events.

It felt odd to sift through physical copies of the paper, especially now that almost all news has become digitized. I realized how accustomed I’ve become to clickbait, snappy headlines and bite-sized pieces marketed to our dwindling attention spans.

I was glad to have the opportunity to reengage with the news as a source of information, not just a product. It also gave me the chance to catch up with what I had missed while away at college. 

I was born and raised in Mattituck and graduated from Mattituck High School in 2021. During my university breaks, I caught only glimpses of how the texture of our community has altered over the past four years: more “trendy” businesses, an unbearable increase in summer traffic and the gradual “Montaukification” of Greenport into a more cosmopolitan resort destination.

The Suffolk Times chronicled these changes by reporting on Town Board meetings, local events, and even Supreme Court decisions. In all the articles I read, two contrasting visions of the community emerged: one fractured by the tension related to fear of overdevelopment and the other defined by a spirit of collaboration, unity and care. 

Since the pandemic, tourism has undoubtedly increased on the North Fork. It makes sense that developers are eager to capitalize on this change. Riverhead’s Town Square project is just one example of this. The initiative is geared toward revitalizing Riverhead’s downtown area — including plans for a 28-unit apartment building behind The Suffolk theater. 

During a July 24 Riverhead Town Hall meeting, board members and local business owners seemed enthusiastic. Others pointed out that despite arguments that the project would strengthen the community, other incentives were clear: Attract visitors who can boost the local economy. 

While what’s happening here can’t be fairly compared to the wide-scale process of gentrification currently underway in New York City, I do believe residents in the city and out East share a similar hesitation toward change and a protective attitude over their homes. 

Consider the recent extension of the hotel moratorium in Southold. While the town justified the extension due to the incomplete zoning code update (set to take effect in late 2025 or early 2026), residents flocked to the May 28 Town Board meeting to let their voices be heard about crowds and the overall commercialization of the area. 

There have been wins for those who want to preserve the community. Last October, the Supreme Court denied the Brinkmann family’s lawsuit after Southold Town seized the property at the corner of Main Road and New Suffolk Avenue. The owners of the hardware store chain had sought to turn the land into a commercially zoned property, threatening almost two acres of natural foliage. 

Other ongoing developments include a 20-acre commercial solar power facility in Cutchogue, the Suffolk County Water Authority’s plan for a 12-mile North Fork pipeline and a wireless communications plan prepared for Southold.

Our community is not immune to change — and not all of it is bad. It is great to see outdated methods of thinking about the world challenged and diversified by new perspectives and new education initiatives spearheaded by groups such as the North Fork Arts Center in Greenport. But we also live in a passionate community with many (many) people who are protective of the land they reside on. 

With a diversity of ideas comes disagreement and, in some unfortunate circumstances, bigotry. We saw that this past winter in the hateful comments directed at The Butterfly Project.

But I remain optimistic that the greater majority of our community chooses to find goodness in one another and kindness in their advocacy. 

I felt this when I read of the fundraiser North Fork chefs put together to support Crescent Duck Farm after the bird flu outbreak in January, or new sustainability efforts like Southold’s newly launched food scraps drop-off program, created to reduce waste in the community.

Differences in opinion are a natural consequence of living together. But a study of one year’s history, as recorded in the pages of our local newspaper, reminded me that our community is at its healthiest and strongest when our ideas are guided by care and consideration for others. 

Tara Terranova, a recent graduate Barnard College/Columbia University, worked as Times Review Media Group’s summer 2025 intern.

The post Reporter’s Notebook: Collaboration, unity and care appeared first on Riverhead News Review.

That was a mindset a lot of us kiddos had growing up on the western end of the island, at least in my circle. Part of that was because our whole lives had been in Nassau County — family, school, jobs, girlfriends. Actually, my girlfriend is still there, but we’re working to change that. 

Anyway, let me get back on track here.

Where was I? Oh, yes: Another part is that, frankly, we just didn’t know much about Suffolk County other than that it wasn’t where we lived. I began as a reporter covering Nassau out of college and spent a few years learning more and more about the county I was already familiar with. I mostly covered the City of Long Beach — my hometown — and all the happenings there.

That planted my roots deeper there. Getting the chance to cover the city I grew up in showed me things that I may have otherwise not noticed as a resident. I got to know city officials, business owners and community leaders in ways I wouldn’t have been able to otherwise. All of the connections I made professionally made me feel that I wasn’t just living in the community, but I was a real part of the community.

People in Long Beach — both elected officials and residents — came to me with all sorts of stories: breaking news, feature ideas. Sometimes they didn’t even have stories but just wanted to share their thoughts on something, no matter how big or how small. I loved that, because it showed that people trusted me enough to share whatever was on their mind.

Then this opportunity with Times Review arose, and I went for it.

To me, at least, when I thought about Suffolk County, the North Fork and South Fork didn’t necessarily come to mind. Now, I’m basically two months into my role covering the North Fork, and man, what a way to learn about the county I “didn’t know as much about.” It’s been fun getting acclimated.

I think that was a good way to come into this new role. I didn’t have any real expectations or preconceived notions for what the East End might be like. That’s not to say I wasn’t nervous, though. I was absolutely nervous. Having to learn new communities and people from scratch? Definitely a little nerve-racking. But to me, being nervous shows you care about whatever it is, and I cared.

I’ve had the pleasure of doing some reporting in Riverhead, Southold, Mattituck and Greenport, and it’s certainly been interesting. Everything from ICE agents being spotted and backlash at board meetings to community fundraisers and features, one thing has been apparent to me so far: people love their communities passionately.

That’s what you want to see if you’re a reporter. If people love where they live and care about what’s going on, they’ll talk to you about those things. They’ll share thoughts with you, they’ll tell you the things you want to hear and the things you don’t. But the bottom line is, people who care about their communities will talk, which makes my job more enjoyable, too, because I love to talk to people.

I’ve only been here a short time still, but I feel as though some nice connections have already been made. I’ve met and spoken with some great people who have welcomed me into their communities. It’s made my transition so much easier, so everyone I’ve spoken to so far — and those I hope to speak with in the future — thank you. 

After these two months, I can confidently say that Nassau is not definitely better than Suffolk. Each county has unique aspects that make it great. Each county also has some things that aren’t so “great” that get community members out of their homes and to meetings, voicing their opinions. That is great too, though, because, again, it shows people care.

Now that I look back at this piece of writing that you’ve come this far reading, it seems like a long-winded way of saying: Long Island as a whole is great, and I’ve had the privilege of covering both ends of it. I’m excited to keep going, meet more people, learn even more about the intricacies of each community and get more acclimated. 

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I’m a hack addict — a hackoholic, if you will — and the internet is hack heaven! Got a question? Need a solution? Is there a better way? Just ask Google, or Siri, or my own best friend and adviser, Alexa.

It wasn’t always this easy. In the old days we had two sources: our mothers and Reader’s Digest.

Most often our mothers’ comments would end with, “So, if your friends are jumping off a bridge, you’re gonna do it, too?” That’s probably why we ignored our moms and turned to the how-to articles that popped up in the Digest, such as: Five-ways to remove blood splatter off a wall; how to convert that bridesmaid dress into cafe curtains: or 50 ways to leave your lover (not only pre-internet, but pre-Simon & Garfunkel).

Because I’ve collected hacks, even before they were called that, I’ve had my share of wins and fails. Mostly fails.

I should have known that the tip to “save that broken nail with superglue” might include complications because of an incident years earlier that involved my husband. We were going to the Navy Ball. Life was fancy for us in those days. He in his dress uniform and me in a long gown, big hair, plus a tiara.

As we were leaving the house his front tooth, a cap, fell out showing a big gap when he smiled, and a metal post. He grabbed the superglue and filled the hollow in the tooth, then jammed it into place. But when he tried to remove his thumb and finger, they were glued to his tooth and, worse, so was his tongue.

Long story short, he pried his fingers free and left a big patch of tongue skin on the back of that tooth. We were late for the ball, but that was my fault. I had laughed so hard I had to change clothes. Fortunately, in those fancy days, I had a closet full of long gowns. And tiaras. I still laugh when I think about it. Not him, though.

My own superglue “event” happened on the ferry to Greenport. I figured fixing the broken fingernail would be easy-peasy. I used my right hand to apply the glue to thebroken nail on my left hand, which rested on the center of my steering wheel. By the time the ferry docked, the glue had dried and my left hand was superattached to the steering wheel. I was all the way to Mattituck before I’d pulled my hand free. There was some blood, but my broken nail looked wonderful, so I put that hack on my win side. Lord knows where that car is now, but wherever, a clump of my DNA is still firmly attached. The instant face-lift hack was a fail. “Don’t bother with expensive serums or plastic surgery. Whip up a raw egg white until frothy, then apply to your face and let dry. Wrinkles, crows feet, frown lines — all gone!”

Just as my DIY facelift was dry my husband came into the kitchen and I asked, “How do I look?” through clenched teeth because my skin was stretched so taut I couldn’t really move my mouth and I didn’t want to ruin the “lift.”

“Like a glazed donut,” he said. “What!” I said, feeling my instant lift crack and crinkle in a dozen places, so I looked like a smashed glazed donut. And adding insult to injury, I smelled like the worst part of a two-day-old lemon meringue pie.

Perhaps my worst fail (to date) was the chicken cutlet hack. I saw it on “Oprah.”

“Don’t waste two minutes pounding those cutlets thin,” Oprah’s chicken-hack guru advised. “Just place the cutlet in a plastic bag, then place the bag under your car’s tire and run it over. Voila! Instant flattened cutlets.”

My chicken did not flatten, it vanished. The bag was still there, but the chicken was gone! Apparently, the guru drives a lighter car than mine because $6 worth of chicken breasts had shot out of the bag and slammed themselves against the side of my house. Worse, they weren’t just hanging there. My house has cedar shingles and the shredded chicken hit with such force, it was embedded in those shingles. I tried getting it out with tweezers, but most of it stayed there. Not a big deal until the sun hits that side of the house.

I should know better now, right? I guess I’m just a slow learner. That being said, “Alexa! How many washings does it take to get mayonnaise out of someone’s hair? Asking for a friend.”

Joanne Sherman is a resident of Shelter Island and longtime Times Review columnist.

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The first Monday in September was earmarked Labor Day as an election year appeasement by President Grover Cleveland. During the Great Depression of 1893, a strike by Pullman railroad car workers in Chicago went national and it took 12,000 federal troops to break it.

The leaders went to federal prison and the group spearheading the strike, the American Railway Union, was disbanded and most of the other industrial workers’ unions were done in. But protests with new fervor continued, and soon after the bloody end of the strike, legislation was passed by both houses of Congress and President Cleveland signed Labor Day into law to cool things off.

Unions went into hibernation after the Pullman strike, but roared back during the next Great Depression beginning in 1929. Organization and collective bargaining thrived for several generations, contributing to one of history’s triumphs: the rapid and extensive expansion of the American middle class. In the 1950s, 50% of American workers held union cards. Today, according to the U.S. Department of Labor, only 11.1% of workers are represented by unions.

The left and the right both complain about the middle class shrinking over the last several decades, and both political wings have their reasons for this. One argument for the stagnation of real wages is that with the death of unionized labor, real money in the pocket has shrunk.

This upcoming Labor Day brought to mind my own experience scuffling at low-paying jobs and the three union cards I carried. The experience showed me unions from three distinct angles — the weird, the great and the awful.

But first, some thoughts on why some people think unionizing fast food workers or baristas is strange or funny. These jobs are widely disparaged in American culture — someone “flipping burgers” is a figure of fun. We should remember that most of these employees aren’t kids, but people trying to support families. The U.S. Department of Labor, for example, found the median age of these workers is over 28.

So — my three unions. As a high school kid I landed a full-time, year-round night job at a municipal golf course. My duties: Starting at 4:30 p.m. in the summer, I ran a truck following the final foursome around the 18 holes, setting up sprinklers when they cleared the greens, moving the hoses after a couple of hours and, later, driving around and shutting them off and coiling them in the bed of the truck.

I then went into watchman mode, although what I was watching for was never spelled out. In the fall, winter and spring months after school, I was all watchman from 4:30 p.m. on. I did my duty by sprawling on a broken couch in a shack in the woods off the 15th hole, listening to the radio and reading. By midnight I was done, racing to catch the last bus home.

I was paid peanuts, but it kept me out of the pool hall. The job improved immediately one night around 9 p.m. when a guy in a suit walked into the shack. This was startling, since for a year I’d seen no one after that final foursome. Was he the one I should have been watching for? Before I could say anything, he introduced himself, calling me “Brother.”

I was now a member of the International Brotherhood of Teamsters, Chauffeurs and Warehousemen of America. I was told a few dollars in dues would be taken out of my paycheck next week, handed a pamphlet and a card and got a handshake. Before I could ask a single question, my new union brother vanished.

The few dollars were removed from my check, but more were added. I got an immediate 20% raise and ever since have never laughed at Jimmy Hoffa jokes.

Did I deserve the raise? Asking that question defines you.

A few years later, at loose ends, I went one morning to a State Labor Department office in Manhattan. By that afternoon I was running an elevator — a bit erratically, for sure — at a five-story school on Central Park West. Soon I was a member of Local 32B of the New York Building Services Union.

The pay was good and there were benefits, including medical and dental. Summers, when school was out, the doormen and elevator operators became maintenance men, and I painted classrooms and hallways, did pointing on the roof facade and was a plumber’s assistant.

Walter Brown, our shop steward, kept telling me to pay attention, plumbers made way more than elevator jockeys. Did I listen to Walter? If I had, my address today might be Easy Street, Fat City.

My final union was the New York City taxi drivers union, where I paid dues for four years. The union, and the industry as a whole, have changed radically since those days. Back then, the union was led by mobbed-up goons who were in bed with the big taxi fleet owners.

The general union meetings were chair-throwing parties — literally. If you went down to the hall on Park Avenue South to get some clarification on dues or rules, a couple of union brothers named Sonny and Junior were happy to clarify you out in the parking lot.

But whenever I hear of people trying to organize, I remember the cabbies I shared long afternoons with at the fleet garages shaping up for work, and the Teamsters I came to know, and especially Walter Brown, who truly believed in a union of bread and roses.

Happy Labor Day.

Ambrose Clancy is editor of the Shelter Island Reporter and interim editor of The Suffolk Times and Riverhead News-Review. He can be reached at aclancy@timesreview.com.

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