Columnists

The median income among Peloton owners is in the high six figures, if the marketing is to be believed. The purchase of one — and the cost of the monthly fees — is a luxury bordering on the inexcusable in these times of trouble.

The Far Right found me a month or so ago, and now not a day goes by that I don’t get half a dozen emails from Newt Gingrich, Donald Trump Jr., or worse.

I don’t believe there are any secret spots anymore. That was certainly the case on Saturday, when the middle child and I went to a normally empty place along the ocean for a late-afternoon swim.

Cribbage? You never know what will bring two strangers together.

I have an unhealthy relationship with large home appliances.

I’ll be goddamned if all those cassettes I lost to a flooded basement didn’t help catalog a life.

It’s gratifying to have memories of a youth ill-spent.

As the Black Lives Matter movement focuses attention on the legacy of slavery and racism in the United States, there is a sense that the assessment is incomplete

A trip to the sporting goods store turns into a moment of reflection.

When I was very small I had a conception of the calendar year as a wheel, with different hues in sections at the end of spokes — a wagon wheel, a View Master card, a color wheel.

The deer I was prepared for. The rabbits I was not.

Every American should have the experience of complete, untethered freedom, if only for a while.

My own favorite moment of 2020 was circling deck seven aboard the Queen Mary II in high seas, tilting into the high winds, as we crossed the North Atlantic back in January.

My mom’s ability to reach out, give you the spotlight, kill at cocktail hour, and, by God, hold up a conversation, is a source of endless luxury for my dad, sister, and me.

You have to wonder how friendships will survive the pandemic.

On this, the first day of summer, I thought it would be fit to fetch the snow shovel from its place beside the front door and take it to the shed out back. “I guess we won’t be needing this for a while,” I said to Mary, before recalling that given the winter that wasn’t, we hadn’t needed it at all.

There have been a lot of strange nights around the Fourth of July at our place. This year might turn out to be one of the strangest.

Let's pause a moment to reflect on the passing of Joe Sinnott, artist and inker instrumental in shaping the look of the Marvel Comics universe in its 1960s heyday.

When Mary said we were already in heaven, our backyard providing ample evidence that it exists, I said Emily Dickinson had said something similar in some of her poems.

Exactly six years, eight months, and one day have elapsed since the last time I played the cello.

Dinnertime for black-backed gulls more or less coincides with people dinner around here, or so it seems to me. 

A self-imposed race against the clock to give blood as the pandemic drags on.

How can I ever thank you? You have been there from the beginning, in the soaring chorus of “Good Day Sunshine” through the car’s tinny radio so many summers ago, and even now you are here, the infectious — in the best way — “Home Tonight.”

As such things go, early on during the pandemic I passed on a piece of good advice I had heard — about learning a new skill during the lockdown — then did not really heed that thought myself.

The Bridgehampton racetrack was brought back to life Saturday for a simulated racing competition watchable on YouTube.

“It gets easier,” someone said recently in referring to long marriages and looking my way for confirmation.

I pulled the plug on cable television at precisely the wrong time — as two national crises descended upon us.

A real estate broker once told us that we didn’t want to live in “The Corridor,” but now, with all the beautifying work going on at practically every house in the neighborhood save ours, I feel blessed to be living within it.

In the 19th century, as many as a quarter of cowboys were black.

All about us there’s suffering, and yet this neighborhood in which we live in Springs is beautiful, in full bloom and serene. It doesn’t get any better than this — here, that is.