Columnists

Netflix’s documentary series “Wrestlers” gets at the real America — you know, the oddball, likable one.

Such is the lot of the personal essayist: Sometimes you have to lead with “I.”

Directed onto a heat-oppressed dog, a box fan does double duty as Proustian madeleine.

Having spent a lifetime looking at fabrics and trying to imagine what it felt like to live in the material world while wearing a dress of dimity or cambric or society silk, I have gotten pretty good at recognizing what era a print or pattern is from.

I am about to begin my 57th year at The Star. Yet I should not be borne wistfully into the past.

What is the Huntting Inn, anyway?

I am a superfan of the — terrible, awful, no-good — television franchise “The Bachelor.”

I was taken to task recently for not giving as much space to the Travis Field memorial softball tournament as I did to the Artists and Writers Game, but both events were noteworthy.

September at summer’s end feels as if the world is in a kind of abeyance.

When Cormac McCarthy died this summer, I didn’t go to one of his late novels, I went to “Blood Meridian.”

Confined to one sports page these days, whereas, formerly, I was granted three or four, I’m inclined to yearn for the old days.

On Sept. 21, 1938, the morning of the Great New England Hurricane, as it came to be named by news writers, indicated a perfect end-of-summer day. There was little warning for tropical storms in those days.