Columnists

I must say, in retrospect, that if the coronavirus were still raging, Authors Night would have been a good place to catch it.

As August rolls to a leisurely close, a minor mystery has returned to my neighborhood: the Cranberry Hole Road banana bandit is back after a long absence. 

And now for the budget portion of our Italian vacation.

From streaming services to superheroes, it’s sensory overload.

Don’t look back, as Satchel Paige said, for something might be gaining on you.

A hero of roadside seed spreading.

My extremely rudimentary ideas of Rome previously came from the movies.

The undiscovered country of Riverhead dining.

A coach’s argument that his prayers following high school football games were private and personal is hard to believe.

Deer have radically altered the microhabitat here.

Whenever the subject of romance comes up, I like to say that I reached my peak of popularity in July 1979.

Notes on the air-conditioning wars.

I say the evidence as to Donald Trump’s criminal intent has been there all along.

An encounter with driveway theft.

Spaghetti-eaters have been scratching their names and initials into the wood paneling at Sam’s Restaurant on Newtown Lane since 1947.

A show for the (restaurant) working stiff.

It’s depressing reading about young people’s apathy when it comes to voting.

A bunch of us had gone clamming off a boat on Sunday, which was the last I had seen the wallet.

I’m in the camp that believes the deer have got to go.

A summertime afternoon with the Hamptons Collegiate Baseball League.

To O’en, when he’s on the move, everything is new — the quotidian becomes all-absorbing. I envy him that.

Deer do not read The Star. As best as I can tell, neither do the rabbits that ate my parsley last summer.

I once read someplace that the popular song most frequently to be found on the jukeboxes of the Empire State was Sinatra’s “Summer Wind.”

Encounters with Loudon Wainwright III.

Let’s hear it for freedom.

Getting away from the week’s distractions would not be as easy as I had expected.

Lawrence Block’s hard-boiled romance of the down-and-out.

Whenever Mark Shields would ask Judy Woodruff during his Friday evening discussions with David Brooks if he could say just one thing, Mary and I would come to the edge of our seats, she on the small couch, I on the recliner, knowing he was about to speak from the heart to our better angels.

A chance conversation last week while I was waiting for my food pickup at La Fondita got me thinking about the way those of us who work for a living on the South Fork talk about summer.

It’s getting hard to keep a grasp on what is and isn’t the right thing to do or to permit, with this teenage girl of mine.