Opinion

I’m writing this in a blaze of blinding sun and white concrete, poolside at the Lighthouse Inn on Cape Cod, whither the kids and I have hied ourselves for a last-minute, three-night mini-cation. The Lighthouse Inn is a family-run resort founded in 1938, a cottage colony by the sea. A band was playing “Build Me Up, Buttercup” and “Sweet Caroline” by the water’s edge as we checked in.

Questioning the value of offshore wind based on maintenance issues with the first United States project is a stretch.

A veritable tsunami of coffee in a decades-old thriller sets a grateful reader to thinking.

Ah, the competition and camaraderie of hoops.

I was thinking the other day, walking in our neighborhood, that we were blessed by God; later, our daughter Emily, who lives in Ohio, told us why.

Signs of the coming change of season come too soon for my taste.

Either you love carnivals and fairs or you loathe them.

Governor Cuomo should have been ousted from the Executive Mansion a year ago.

If there was any doubt before that Andrew M. Cuomo should no longer be governor of New York, a scathing report this week from the state attorney general’s independent investigation into his pattern of serial sexual harassment of women should have erased it entirely.

My current obsession with the Tokyo Olympics prompts memories of a low-budget trip to Montreal for the ’76 Games.

I am 74 and diagnosed with end-stage heart and kidney disease. The doctors said there was not much more they could do. Go live life.

Landscapers’ trucks are everywhere — and getting bigger.

The traffic is godawful, but maybe as a result of the snail's pace everyone's driving too slowly to inflict much damage.

I have been spending a lot of time aboard Cerberus this summer, though not as much of it sailing as I would have liked.

Among the brilliant things I never did was an art project I conceived of in my late teens, in which I was going to take Polaroid photographs of my feet clad in favorite pairs of shoes. An autobiography in footwear.

Beach amenities services would appear to require a permit from the town or villages. However, with so many miles of shoreline and limited awareness among caterers and others, the rules are routinely ignored.

A Monday afternoon in the D.M.V. road test queue in Patchogue.

Memories of funky, beautiful, artistic Springs in the summer of ’64.

As I was leaving Wittendale’s the other day holding a tall milkweed plant on the way to check out, a monarch butterfly flitted about me — a good sign.

Cellphone service is not all that bad around here — in February.

A fire last week that destroyed a family’s Springs house was notable in two respects — its cause and the conditions in which firefighters responded.

There is a rhythm emerging in the struggle between me and the deer over who rules the garden.

Does it astonish you that there is a ferry in service today on the Long Island Sound that landed in France on D-Day?

Juneteenth, the new national holiday marking the end of slavery as an institution in the United States, came and went in East Hampton Town and Village with only slight notice.

What began as a simple college website search sends a dad into a tech tailspin.

The release of the Netflix mini-series “Halston” coincided with my discovery of a letter I’d written to a friend in Europe in early 1978 and never sent, containing my firsthand account of a busy Friday night when the designer played a starring role.

Research does not support the idea that marijuana is performance-diminishing.

As the arguments against dramatically changing or even closing East Hampton Airport are whittled away, a last resort is emerging, that there are too many wealthy people here for that to happen.

Sharks have arrived here, and not just the sort able to think that parking among the dead is okay.

If I think about it, I’m at my happiest around a bonfire, on the beach.