Columnists

Two essential graphic novels on the occasion of Black History Month.

Continuing in the same vein as last week, more excerpts from “Five Characters in Search of an Editor,” read 50 years ago at Guild Hall.

Four years ago when a few of us began looking into early East Hampton’s relationship with slavery, we were met with a cocked head and some variation of “We don’t have anything about slavery.”

The news keeps reporting studies that conclude remote work is more productive work, but those studies are clearly incorrect.

This sounds cheap, but I’d like to protest the disappearance of soup and sandwiches at the mobile New York Blood Center drives.

It’s funny, but when you’re looking for something, something else, something that you had given up looking for years ago, turns up.

Black History Month has been busy here in recent years, since The Star and the East Hampton Library began looking into the history of slavery in earnest in the summer of 2017.

Facebook is more interesting in Nova Scotia.

On the roads the layer of snowpack and slush was an improvement, quieting the traffic, for once slowing the heedless drivers, adding adventure to the school drop-off routine. 

Rather than kind acts, it’s the failures to act kindly that I tend to remember.

Road rage: Nine out of 10 people say they don’t have it. Actually, I have no idea if that’s true; I just made up the statistic to get your attention. But the subject has been on my mind a lot lately.

My career on the stage was short and inglorious.

A happy memory of a trip to a micro brewery, and an unhappy realization that now all bottled beer tastes stale.

A couple of weeks ago things were so garbled on the sports page that Mary thought some readers might think I was senile. “Don’t worry,” someone in the front office said. “People have been saying that for years.”

We are in a housing crisis on the South Fork. No one seems to have found the right solution.

Why I gave my 9-year-old son a BB gun for Christmas merits a bit of explanation.

A father and a daughter, playoff football on the TV at a snow-swept B&B, and the glories of western New York.

Having fallen kersplat on a particularly unforgiving sidewalk near Starbucks the other day, I knew it was time to trade in my sneakers.

Birds’ cries are full of mystery.

A tough row to hoe for the college bound.

We sat rapt last night, beyond our bedtime, through a chilling “Frontline” report on those who think their freedom’s infringed if they cannot infringe upon the freedom of others.

Few things are as satisfying as a well-done home repair.

A litany of localism test questions

From Atlanticville to Hog Neck, what happened to the great place names of yore?

Sports here got off to a stuttery start last year at this time, and I’m hoping this dreary virus doesn’t eat again into one of my life’s chief joys, which is rooting animatedly for the home, sweet home team.

While the pandemic has created havoc in so many aspects of life, Covid-19 has turned out to be the one thing that could finally save the Department of Motor Vehicles.

We find ourselves in the perverse position of wishing for raw, freezing weather.

Togetherness through cards.

Hobbled and fearing the worst, I jumped at a chance to see my knee doctor in Great Neck on the Tuesday before Christmas.

The first-ever issue of this paper read in a gothic font, “The Easthampton Star.” Seeing the name of the town as one word has raised the question of when East Hampton became two words and if it ever properly was just one.