Columnists

When I was growing up in Pittsburgh I worked one college summer as a waitress at an enormous restaurant on the New Jersey shore called Zaberer’s, which was run by a seriously tanned man who grandly called himself “The Host of the Coast.” The main attractions there were lobster — steamed lobster, stuffed lobster, lobsters everywhere — and “Zaber-ized” cocktails served in glasses the size of bathroom sinks.

Each year, the shorebirds that have just finished nesting far to the north arrive around the end of July. If they were successful as parents, their young of the year will be on the flights too, landing along the shore of Gardiner’s Bay to feed and fatten and, soon, to rise and fly south toward their wintering grounds.

The landscape at Promised Land, where I settled after marrying an East Hamptoner in 1960 (a time that now seems 100 years ago), was for me akin to another planet.

One can be exceedingly buoyed by the aura of good will that exists here, but, for the most part, in order to revel in it you’ve got to arise at first light, which I have been doing for a number of weeks now.

While I was neglecting to properly maintain my yard this summer, a colony of wasps built a nest on one of the outer walls of the outdoor shower.

“Don’t eff it to death.” That was what the late Sandy Bainbridge said to me one day long ago while we were getting a new bookcase into former Treasury Secretary Pete Peterson’s oceanfront house in Southampton.

I may have been the winner of a spelling bee when I was in second grade, but now that I am above a certain age my spelling prowess is diminishing. It’s hard to stomach the fact that I sometimes have to consult a dictionary these days before committing a word to prose. (I was about to say “to paper,” but thought better of it.)

Well at least the president didn’t claim the enemy of the people misquoted him — he had, in fact, misquoted himself, he said, when it came to Russia’s meddling on his electoral behalf.

Chill out, give thanks, I wrote, from Brooklyn, in a typically mawkish letter to The Star eight years ago.

The Ladies Village Improvement Society fair is Saturday, an annual event that I have enjoyed since I was small and my grandmother took me to the Mulford Farm grounds to play pint-size games of chance and get my face painted. But it was not the fair that had me thinking about the L.V.I.S. early this week; rather, I had no swim trunks in my truck, and I badly wanted to break up the day with a dip in the ocean.

Call it an addiction, but I’ve been bereft this week without The New York Times. I have had a copy delivered to my door pretty much every day of my adult life, but suddenly it has ceased to appear.

This time of day, when the sun can be seen in stripes on the dark grass and on the ferns and there’s a breeze and some of the birds can be heard, is my favorite. Maybe O’en’s too.

High tide came late on Friday, late enough that no one was awake or on the beach when my old, red kayak floated away. It was my fault, really.

I’ve been thinking about a topic very much in the news these days, which has not gained as much attention as it should — understandable, considering all the emergencies, especially emergencies involving children in recent weeks — and that is the Supreme Court decision on June 27 that public employees do not have to pay the costs of collective bargaining by unions that represent them if they have not chosen to be members.

Every year it seems to get worse. Last night, O’en and I were almost clipped by a wide-turning tank dropping people off at the house across the street. With O’en on the leash, I unleashed obscenities. I had been waving my flashlight energetically to ward them off, but to little avail it seemed.

It was a missed opportunity. On Sunday night my friends and I spent our time waiting for a table at Salivar’s in Montauk and watching a crowd at an outdoor reggae show. Would that I had had the sense to take a photo with my phone. It might have made the front cover.

Whether you are a Democrat, Republican, or independent voter, it’s easy to simply assume that Representative Lee Zeldin, our congressman here in the First District, is a reliable, reasonable, traditional member of the mainstream Republican Party. However, given his decision to invite Sebastian Gorka to headline a re-election fund-raiser in Smithtown on June 28, that easy assessment needs to be tossed out the window. Our congressman has become extraordinarily buddy-buddy with radicals and extremists of the ultra-right, bigoted wing of his party.

It was asked last week of some people in the street how they were going to celebrate Independence Day. Most said they’d see the fireworks, which is evocative, but I’m wondering if we shouldn’t before night falls (this was written before night fell) take 10 minutes, at the most, to reread the Declaration of Independence, one of whose “self-evident truths” is, surprise, that “all men are created equal,” an assertion that seems to have been more honored in the breach than in the observance over the years, especially these days.

A couple weeks ago, the New York City L.G.B.T. Pride march left Lower Manhattan all but paralyzed. I grew up on Christopher Street, less than a block from the historical Stonewall Inn, and the parade passes in front of my mother’s house every year.

One hundred years ago this week, The Star reported, East Hampton observed Independence Day with the biggest and grandest celebration ever held. More than 600 members of the New York State Guard marched in the July 4 parade, and the context made it page-one, above-the-fold news:

It was distressing to read that the traffic snarl exacerbated by the U.S. Open had eased during the weekend, which means, I guess, that they really are going to have it again, in 2026.

Driving past an osprey feeding on a utility pole on my way to Lazy Point the other morning, I noticed something that had not caught my eye before. Grasped in a talon was a flatfish of some sort, which the bird was tearing apart with its beak.

The landscape here is lovelier than ever this spring . . . even as our nation wallows in the muck.

As I walked out under the trees and breeze and sun with O’en last Thursday morning, I remarked to him on what a beautiful day it was not to be going to the U.S. Open.

Welcome, once again, to the world. Thirty-two countries, 64 games, and 35 joyous days of football. It’s not called soccer anywhere else but America, and since Team U.S.A. did not qualify, there’s no reason to call it anything but football.

Since the East Hampton Library placed a dandy touch-screen coffee machine on its circulation desk last month, some of the Star staff have spent a lot more time next door. That might not be the case with the enigma that is Russell Bennett, who takes regular breaks to sit in one of the comfortable leather chairs and flip through a book. For several of the rest of us, the lure of made-to-order coffee, for $1 if we take our own mug, is irresistible.

President Reagan was said to have called ketchup a vegetable. And Nixon was said to have put ketchup on his cottage cheese. (I tried it, and shouldn’t have.) Reagan loved mac and cheese and favored a particular method of its preparation. And his fondness for jellybeans was known to the world.

I’ve always thought that East Hampton would serve as a good model for what this country should be, a place in which people, despite their differences, cared for one another when you came down to it and cared for the naturally blessed place in which they lived, to wit, that here people could indeed live for a cause bigger than themselves, as the late Ben and Bonnie Krupinski did.

We called Eric Firestone the porgy whisperer when he got back on dry land. And with good reason. Last year, he landed the biggest porgy ever taken on my boat. This year, he brought aboard the largest porgy I had ever seen anywhere.

Sunday found me lying on my parents' couch UpIsland, watching reruns of "Diff'rent Strokes," while noting Mr. Drummond's glaring eligibility — a fact lost on me when the later episodes originally aired in 1984. I was 6 — and how I'm now old enough to marry Mr. Drummond and become stepmother to Arnold, Willis, and Kimberly.