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