Columnists

The eclipse on Monday brought back memories of an eclipse in the 1970s, when I was at “hippie school,” the Hampton Day School in the potato fields of Bridgehampton.

“You threw out my picture?” Mary asked when I told her my office’s walls were now bare, the floors were bare, the desk was bare.

There was plenty of screaming during my short trip to Nashville last weekend. I had not understood how Music City U.S.A. had become Partytown U.S.A.

Getting hip to women’s college hoops at just the right time.

One person’s detritus is another’s precious possession.

Seeing a photograph of a rusted car frame tumbling from a dune recently reminded me of a devastating northeaster 62 years ago.

Just one more Dunkin’ Donuts franchise here would make it right.

Is it sacrilegious to nose-poke at church on Easter Sunday?

Second-guessing the first exercise outing of spring.

Whenever someone talks about “a more innocent time” and the faraway days of childhood happiness, my mind drifts to the house on Egypt Close where my friends Katy and Jenny Paxton lived.

I rather like noxious fumes, having grown up in the ’50s in Pittsburgh.

A massive deaccession after the office furnace blew up has prompted a bit of soul searching of the Marie Kondo sort.