Columnists

Catching up with the Berwinds and their summer retreats, Newport to Bridgehampton.

Taking Cerberus out alone for one last, leisurely sail before dry dock.

With parenthood, I have become pro cozy.

The charming, devastating accuracy of the Peacock comedy “The Paper.”

Sora 2 is a so-called artificial intelligence that can make lifelike videos with a few brief instructions, and it is ominous indeed.

My pretentious existential crisis this week was brought about by the demise of my dishwasher.

Two nights in a fully outfitted Episcopal chapel turned Airbnb lodging: creepy or restful?

Before it was called Easthampton or East Hampton, the tiny colonial town way out on the eastern part of Long Island was known as Maidstone. Supposedly. Proof is scant.

At some point over the summer I passed over an invisible boundary line and began looking ahead to that golden day when I will become a grandmother.

Jeff VanderMeer redeems an entire literary genre. Make that several.

Each intense storm provides a tree-pruning service. We are overdue for another.

A curmudgeon may be someone who hates change when change is for the worse, hates trendiness, but a curmudgeon is also someone who plays a useful role as cultural watchdog.

Remembering Peter Walsh and Coogan’s, his storied Washington Heights bar, at the resurrected Potato Hampton 5K in Bridgehampton.

There is a saying among sailors that there is no shame in running aground because it happens to every one of us eventually.

I’m childishly optimistic that this will be the year that Halloween trick-or-treaters return to my front door.

In James Fenimore Cooper’s steps, Glens Falls to Sag Harbor.

Cerberus, my 1979 Cape Dory sloop, has made the crossing from Connecticut.

September brings a distinct change in the inner weather, too. “Bittersweet” would be the apt word for this moment on the Julian calendar between Labor Day and Columbus Day.

Gorilla Grodd lives.

The town trustees’ clam contest is a lovely event. But where do the giants come from?

Last week I came across something new and interesting on Facebook for the first time in years.

Divorced from reality, sanity, and the actual mechanics of driving, the new car commercials are as depressing as they are slick.

A reminder of how wasps like old boats.

Tumbleweed Tuesday was the best day of the year, weather-wise. Of course, I am prone to such pronouncements. I can’t help it.

Dreams of tennis, yearnings for Queens.

Horns beget more horns, and, where once they were rarely used, they are now a near-constant Main Street intrusion.

All of a sudden the nest is empty, and it’s just me rattling around and opening the refrigerator door and wondering if I need to cook something for dinner or if I should just have Stoned Wheat Crackers and cheese.

Camaraderie and collegiality at the Ellen’s Run 5K in Southampton.

Where did all the boaters go?

A strange scene in D.C., where National Guard members roam.