Columnists

John Edgar Wideman. A fan’s notes.

When I wake from dreams, I feel quite peaceful, like the way I felt after my last colonoscopy.

I am happily a morning person, but birds tend to get annoying as the day goes on.

Non-adventures with a sofa-loving rescue pup.

If I were a car, what kind of car would I be?

When ubiquitous smartphones put a crimp in important proceedings.

What we did in April 1985 at Columbia University was righteous. 

Two columns in one: from Palm Springs to NPR’s Uri Berliner.

Here on the narrow end of Long Island between the bays and the ocean, the chill lingers longer than elsewhere. Plant carefully.

Everything I understand about social class in America I learned at a farmers market summer job.

To have order imposed on one who hasn’t been used to it, one who does not feel whole unless stacks of sports pages past surround him, can be traumatic.

This late winter and spring have been wet and wild.

“Government do take a bite, don’t she.”

Getting hip to women’s college hoops at just the right time.

The eclipse on Monday brought back memories of an eclipse in the 1970s, when I was at “hippie school,” the Hampton Day School in the potato fields of Bridgehampton.

“You threw out my picture?” Mary asked when I told her my office’s walls were now bare, the floors were bare, the desk was bare.

There was plenty of screaming during my short trip to Nashville last weekend. I had not understood how Music City U.S.A. had become Partytown U.S.A.

Is it sacrilegious to nose-poke at church on Easter Sunday?

One person’s detritus is another’s precious possession.

Seeing a photograph of a rusted car frame tumbling from a dune recently reminded me of a devastating northeaster 62 years ago.

Just one more Dunkin’ Donuts franchise here would make it right.

I rather like noxious fumes, having grown up in the ’50s in Pittsburgh.

A massive deaccession after the office furnace blew up has prompted a bit of soul searching of the Marie Kondo sort.

Second-guessing the first exercise outing of spring.

Whenever someone talks about “a more innocent time” and the faraway days of childhood happiness, my mind drifts to the house on Egypt Close where my friends Katy and Jenny Paxton lived.

Montauk on steroids: A stroll down the immense concrete boardwalk-slash-sea wall at Virginia Beach.

I’d wanted to see Monticello since I was a teenager.

You almost wish that the Ottoman Empire had remained intact.

All is well at the wind farm cable landing spot in Wainscott.

Keeping up with the chickens on the Delmarva Peninsula.