Columnists

A dip at Noyac's Long Beach gives rise to thoughts of where a guy's been, and what's been happening on the South Fork over the last two decades.

Europeans make fun of Americans for the way we go about grinning and chirping banalities at one another, but we don’t do it because we’re all idiots, but because the smiling, nodding, and have-a-nice-day-ing are folk customs that serve a social purpose.

From Memorial Day to Labor Day, Americans typically consume 7 billion hot dogs.

It was a track athlete’s worst nightmare, and now the defending 800 meters gold medalist won’t be going to the Paris Games this summer.

The most spectacular piece of loot ever found on the beach by a member of my family was a human hand.

Time was that “Turtle Crossing” signs were seen here and there. I don’t know where they all went, but the turtles didn’t go away.

It’s encouraging. It’s worrying. It’s a stopover at Watkins Glen State Park.

Who shall we nominate for the emblematic animal sensation of summer 2024?

For Mary Graves, May 25, 1952 - June 17, 2024

There are few things in this world as repulsive as bilgewater.

Running to “Blonde on Blonde” in its entirety.

“I’m happy . . . I know it may not be politically correct these days to say so, but, yes, happy, I confess.”

Besides touchy, what is “local,” anyway?     

Cerberus, my 1979 sloop, remains where I left it in October, at a marina on the Connecticut River. The plan is to get it back into the water soon.

You intimately sense the connection between those who have gone before and those coming after in a small town Memorial Day parade such as ours.

A novelistic chance meeting at a bar in Noyac triggers questions about life in the Hamptons — and triggers generally.

There is a distinct proprietary protectiveness of the very wealthy among us.

Making like a trucker, hell-bent on Myrtle Beach.

We dweebs go into the city about once a decade.

Down where I live, within feet of the marsh, the buzz is constant from about the end of May until early October.

You, too, may have found yourself wondering about the staying power of even the best of “prestige television.” A nun to the rescue.

So, what did I learn this week? That Audubon “more than once described birds that almost certainly never existed,” and that the L.V.I.S. didn’t have any pants with a 35-inch waist.

Among the plant-related projects that I have gotten into, none is as challenging as grafting apples. Now, in the second year, I have one survivor out of a dozen attempts, a scion cut from a Quail Hill tree.

How Yondr pouches remade one school’s lunchtime.

It’s been a long time since I owned any shoes that felt worthy of a Polaroid or that seemed to reflect anything in particular about my character or my autobiography.

I wonder if it’s all right to wear warmup pants and a Bonac hoodie to the Press Club of Long Island’s Hall of Fame induction ceremony.

Think what we may about the yearly climate cycle on the East End, some kind of seasonal calendar is needed to anticipate when to take the dahlia and tomato seedlings outside.

Under the heading of “Anything worth doing at all will take at least a tiny modicum of effort” I categorize most of life’s pleasures.

If it weren’t for the moon, we wouldn’t be here.

Cold spells, baseballs, and pesky small birds notwithstanding, an osprey’s life seems a good one.