Guestwords

This Friday through Sunday after Thanksgiving, a new chapter of Hamptons Pride history will be written in the East Hampton Presbyterian Church, as quilts from the National AIDS Memorial will be on display.

A writer looks forward to the intimacy, quiet, and soul nourishment of winter.

There are people in my Protestant church tradition who will say you shouldn’t mix politics and religion. But that’s impossible. The teachings in Scripture in any of our religious traditions call for responsible action based on central affirmations of faith.

Memories of a time abroad that taught one writer how to truly experience travel.

Proposals for some development regulations that just might save this place are up for a public hearing with town board members next Thursday, Nov. 7, at 6 p.m. at Town Hall.

Thoughts on a neighborhood spraying of pesticides, weekly through the end of December.

In 2017, the Republican Congress capped the State and Local Tax (SALT) deduction. Then-President Trump eagerly signed it. This cap has severely hit Suffolk residents’ net income and the region’s economy.   

The Hampton Jitney’s video of tips and rules sends a regular rider over the edge.

The Patchogue-Medford High School class of 1962 gathers, and a novelist gets to thinking.

It can happen here: Applying a professor’s Tourism Area Life Cycle metric is revealing, bordering on bracing.

Plastics come from multiple sources and have been accumulating in the environment for at least 70 years, since they came into our lives.

Remembering the first time I came to the East End 30 years ago also rekindles thoughts of the skyline of India, and my home country’s independence.

Around 9, cars start pulling up and guys meander onto the field, one by one, groggy and disheveled, animated by caffeine and muscle memory. They soft-toss and take B.P. and let the weight of the week rise into the morning mist.

When are our words about a garden, and when are they about our relationship?

A tricky procedure, but one that will undoubtedly take a weight off your shoulders.

It’s hard to forget the surprising togetherness and making-do of New Yorkers plunged into darkness in the worst power outage in American history.

I am a single, cisgender female, American of African descent, of a certain age, with no children or a partner. And I matter.

In 2013 I was obsessed with being an Authors Night author in support of the East Hampton Library. Here’s an inside-the-tent look at the Hamptons’ ultimate book party and benefit.

Now that I am an octogenarian, my sense of risk increases at every turn. At the same time, I have gained an understanding of vulnerability as a character trait that allows me to be more open to what the world may offer.

It’s a rare thing to be part of an all-female crew on a sailboat, and yet that’s where I found myself in the middle of Noyac Bay.

Down the road I found a cream-colored, brown-speckled pony staked to a post in a farmer's yard. He was stunted, thick-barreled, short-necked. My stack of bills and quarters was enough, and a horsewoman was born.

The love of objects isn’t necessarily symptomatic of greed. Sometimes they become an extension of who we are, and a tangible sign of our connection to others.

If you were witty, she was delighted. If you were needy, she was giving. If you were aspirational, she was your number-one cheerleader. We all should be more like Mary Graves.

Conservatives will accept the reality of climate change once they realize that the most effective solution is one that depends on market forces rather than government regulation.

After D-Day, why did it take the Allies 11 months to make it from Normandy to Berlin, when normally it’s a day’s drive?

A last-minute trip to Belmont Park one June day in 1973 led to our correspondent witnessing a once-in-a-lifetime triumph — Secretariat’s Triple Crown.

The idea of downing a brisk brew now and again is growing on me. It seems to match my middle-aged self, my slower self, my more contented self.

One sportfisherman’s perspective on how Montauk has changed.

It’s typical of people my age to look back with nostalgia and say it’s too bad everything has gone to hell. But I look forward.

I wanted someone who baked cookies. My mother painted pictures.