Poseyville’s fishermen lived in small houses. Who cared? They had the sea and the bays and the creeks.
“a host of golden daffodils”
We are but prawns in a game ruled by big fish.
The summer of 1948 was different
Things on the beach have seemed different in the past couple of summers
A camping adventure
They all allege to know everyone and everything that is happening
I surprised Lisa for her birthday this year with a membership in one of the South Fork’s growing number of community-supported agriculture farms
The struggle against entropy continues
I threw myself on the ticket agent’s mercy, pointing to my family as if they were refugees whose return to East Hampton would be catastrophic