Columnists

I’ve been waiting for someone to say something to me about the “Free Leonard Peltier” shirts I’ve been wearing.

The novel coronavirus, ever refracting normalcy, casts an eerie glow on the path ahead.

Some people just will not wear masks. This struck me on the Cross Sound Ferry on my way back from Massachusetts.

One of the greatest compensations for losing sleep on squad night is driving home through empty streets and then walking slowly up to my stoop from the driveway in the still of the night.

What to make of the Amazin’s in this weirdly brief and virus-plagued season?

I texted a neighbor the other day asking how the mosquitoes were over her way. Lucy, who usually has a decent amount to say, responded with just one word: bad.

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.

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

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.

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.

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

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

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

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

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.

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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. 

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.