Guestwords

Writing a memoir was not something that came naturally. It was more like building my first treehouse and my second marriage. I had to struggle to learn how to “measure twice, cut once.”

Breaking news, Verizon. There’s a new kid in town, a challenger for your WCW crown — Worst Company in the World.

“Jojo Rabbit” is told from the point of view of a boy during the war. I was a boy at the same time. And I had trouble laughing.

Remembering William Ruckelshaus, the first administrator of the E.P.A., a principled government official whose life was dedicated to environmental leadership.

There is no greater pain than the feeling of shame. I know. As a victim of clerical sexual abuse, my tears waited nearly half a century to stream from my eyes.

I don’t know if any one of us ever really got through John F. Kennedy’s assassination.

There’s one big reason for not hosting Thanksgiving — the turkey.

A marathon story-shaping Freedom Forum at Stony Brook University on Saturday is dedicated to the memory of Marcelo Lucero, the Ecuadorean immigrant who was stabbed to death in Patchogue in 2008.

It’s the rhythm of the natural world that keeps us grounded, and what we need most in desperate times. That’s what I came to understand when I was diagnosed with Stage 3 breast cancer.

I doubt Roy was thinking “last time” on Jan. 2, 2010, as he walked down the driveway of the Montauk house where we had shared 36 years of summers and weekends. But that’s just the thing about the last time: Plans don’t matter.

I loved my nirvana on the corner where I savored chance encounters with all comers — locals, tourists, art and film mavens, even an occasional boldface name. But then began my maiden skirmish in N.Y.C.’s internecine war over booze.

The sight of the local farm stand bounty conjures a sense memory of an early fall in Indiana, and the stovetop follies of a group of friends.