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Articles by this author:

  • The late Jeannette Edwards Rattray, the publisher of this paper who wrote a weekly column called “Looking Them Over” for 51 years, used to like saying that “the world comes to our door.” East Hampton, in other words, was a small town but hardly a backwater.
  • What to do with the sunny Sunday of a long holiday weekend?  Well, for starters, I had to coordinate with the workers who arrived bright and early to fix our dilapidated old picket fence and plant some privet to hide the back neighbors’ pool from view.
  • My cousin Harriet tries to keep her father’s side of the family together even though she lives in Dallas and most of the relatives live on the East Coast.
  • Although the jokey nickname is often used, calling Montauk “The End” doesn’t really catch the spirit of the buzzing community at the tip of Long Island. It has always felt like a place apart —
  • This old house, pardon me, I mean office building, is full of surprises; you never know what will be unearthed in the archives, or a filing cabinet, or an old desk. What we need here is a resident historian.
  • Constant readers, especially those with a flair for gardening, would have seen and I hope enjoyed The Star’s gardening supplement, which was part of last Thursday’s edition.
  • The house and grounds have been “greened,” to use a catchall term for changes that have redefined the landscape and reduced the need for maintenance and overall consumption of energy.
  • Everyone loses things. Right? So why was I in such a tizzy when my purse, containing a wallet and the usual appurtenances, disappeared last week?
  • Robert Frost would, I think, find it ironic that the most often repeated line from his poem “Mending Wall” is his neighbor’s insistence that “good fences make good neighbors.” The poet, you see, doesn’t really seem to agree. He says:

    Spring is the mischief in me, and I wonder    
    If I could put a notion in his head: 
    Why do they make good neighbors? Isn’t it 
    Where there are cows? 
    But here there are no cows.

  • What I remember most about going to see Frank Sinatra perform in New York City is the smell of lily of the valley perfume. I must have been at least 14 because if I had been younger my parents would not have let me go, joining a batch of girls who took a bus from Bayonne to Jersey City’s Journal Square and then the Hudson Tubes to the city.