Columnists

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

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

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

Besides touchy, what is “local,” anyway?     

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

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.

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

John Edgar Wideman. A fan’s notes.

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.

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.

Non-adventures with a sofa-loving rescue pup.

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.

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

When ubiquitous smartphones put a crimp in important proceedings.

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.