Columnists

Justin Gubbins, in recounting the reluctance of his daughter Megan’s Portuguese water dog, Geronimo, to run anymore — marking the end of a career whose highlight was a 42nd-place finish among more than 600 Montauk Turkey Trot entrants four years ago, said that food was pretty much Geronimo’s sole concern these days, sex apparently being out of the question.

December is crammed with holiday concerts, with performances at practically every school, church, and cultural institution. Someone else might get bored with holiday music, but not me. My interest in music doesn’t diminish, even when the music being performed gets a bit repetitive.

It has been a long time since a column of mine got as much reaction as last week’s. The subject was ordinary enough: My getting older as evidenced by my missing the last step on a stepladder on the Sunday a week before Thanksgiving.

Because I’ve been associated with The East Hampton Star for more than half a century, it is no surprise that friends at Peconic Landing ask whether The Star is thriving, and want to talk about how a community newspaper deals with the digital economy.

Being a dweeb, as I am, has its upside.

Plenty of sources tell you about the risk of falls for the elderly. What they don’t tell you about are the dangers of the middle years — when the body isn’t what it used to be but the mind thinks everything is still A-Okay. Consider reading glasses.

There was a time when I frequently traveled from East Hampton to New London, Conn., to visit my husband-to-be, who lived and worked then at Connecticut College. My companion in those days was Mookie, a huge, black, shaggy dog — adopted by my daughter from the Animal Rescue Fund of the Hamptons — who not only had a charming personality but impeccable manners. As regular travelers on the Cross Sound Ferry, to and from New London, Mookie and I were befriended by the crew.

They were in Southampton and, frankly, the news was so good that I leaped from my bed, where I’d been napping, and rushed to the sink to trim my nose hairs. Ear hairs too, inasmuch as I am able.

Jackson Pollock and Lee Krasner standing by a cross-like iron object hung on the wall of their Springs house as photographed by Hans Namuth was on my mind one morning last week as I walked west along the bay shore.

I spent a sleepless night earlier this week trying to remember where I’d left a certain bright-purple file folder that I used to drag out every November, as party season approached. It was our party-planning folder, containing guests’ names and menus from celebrations in years gone by. In the morning, rather to my surprise, I actually managed to find said folder, in a bundle in a box among other folders containing favorite recipes.

If everyone who’s said they’ll come comes today there will be 21 in our house, of all ages, an infusion of spirit that ought to see Mary, me, and O’en, the house’s everyday occupants, through most of the winter.

This whole scallop thing has me puzzled. There aren’t enough to go around as far as a commercial take goes, but I have had my best year ever diving for them with a mask and snorkel. This has given me a chance to mess with them in the kitchen in a way I would not if I had anted up for a pound or two.