Officially, tax day is not until Monday this year, but that will not stop those aligned with the Tea Party here from taking part in a demonstration tomorrow in front of East Hampton Town Hall. April 15 has been designated as the day for protests across the country for a couple of years to draw attention to what the movement’s proponents see as wrong with Washington. The beliefs that drive their agenda are that the federal government has overstepped constitutional bounds and is loading up on debt that will hurt future generations.

    The most unusual aspect of the Tea Party, perhaps, is that it has no governing structure or central command. Its Web site promises to attack politicians who do not adhere to its principles, regardless of party. Instead, it is a loosely connected web of activists and groups who share a range of ideas about what they think is wrong with the country’s direction. Any number of political figures have tried to jump up and claim leadership, but so far no one has managed to do so successfully.

    The “Contract From America,” which has been promulgated as the movement’s core text, is a hodgepodge of fiscal conservatism, blanket generalities, states’ rights ideas, and industry-friendly policies. Among the latter are opposition to greenhouse gas regulation and support for oil drilling and nuclear power. This is hardly the kind of thing that usually gets ordinary citizens out in the streets.

    Rain or shine, the Tea Party faithful will be out tomorrow, at Town Hall and across the country. Their willingness to speak out is to be respected, whether you agree with them or not.

    East Hampton Town appears poised to sell a two-acre plot of land off Stephen Hand’s Path in Northwest Woods in a puzzling deal that deserves scrutiny. The idea apparently sprang fully formed from the town board back office, and it is likely to be voted on soon. There is nothing on the face of it wrong with the plan, but that it was discussed and tentatively agreed to in private should not be allowed to become a template for the future.

    The parcel, which is buildable, was included on a list of town assets that could potentially be put up for sale from the Planning Department, which Supervisor Bill Wilkinson had asked for. The list included Montauk’s commercial docks, which set off a round of protest, and Fort Pond House, also in Montauk, which is the subject of a lawsuit seeking to block the sale.

    If the Stephen Hand’s Path deal goes through, the would-be owner, Claudia Carmozzi, who has property next door, would give up the right to build a house on the parcel in exchange for a number of agricultural structures — a chicken coop, a 20-by-10-foot greenhouse, and a 20-by-20-foot barn. She had asked about erecting a wind turbine to generate electricity, but that part of the plan was dropped.

    Nothing is wrong with Ms. Carmozzi’s vision, but rather the way in which the deal was advanced. Unlike when local governments decide to sell surplus (cars, furniture, or other things) and must follow open-bidding procedures, when it comes to land sales, the law says only that it must be financially responsible. The price Ms. Carmozzi has apparently agreed on, about $400,000, is less than the land would bring if it were sold without a restriction on building a house there.

    There is a good chance others might have liked a crack at the property, however, and are wondering why one person got an inside track. Had the idea been discussed in an open town board session before the deal was all but signed, others might have had a chance to submit bids. People who live nearby might have had a chance to be heard if they had any concerns. Hypothetically, too, environmentalists might have even suggested the land be allowed to revert to its natural state. And, from a different perspective, some taxpayers might have wanted the property listed with real estate brokers in an effort to bring in the most money. After all, the town’s intent in selling property is to help deal with its internal fund debts. But comment was neither required nor invited.

    The resolution accepting Ms. Carmozzi’s offer, should the board vote to approve it, is subject to permissive referendum, meaning that it could be challenged if a large enough number of residents sign a petition requesting a vote. The deal should not have reached this point without an opportunity for the public to be heard. For a board majority that prides itself on transparency, this was a misstep.

At this time of the year, my yard is awash in yellow flowers. I’ve never known exactly what they are — or if someone once did identify them for me, I’ve forgotten — but they look a bit like hardy buttercups. They create a bright, sunny carpet that covers the entire lawn, on all sides of our old house in East Hampton Village. 

A friend who is a landscape designer once remarked that my lawn is less like a lawn and more like a meadow, dotted as it is with not just these yellow mystery flowers but with tiny wild violets. That’s true, and I love it that way. 

Still, by the end of April, I have to buckle to the reality of just exactly how untidy the grounds have become — with the fallen branches of winter tossed everywhere, and clumps of spiky crabgrass among the yellow petals — and I call in Martin Soto, who, with his crew of yard men at a company called Sottessey, has been my outdoor fixer for decades now.

Another friend mentioned recently that deer don’t like the color yellow, and that this is why the forsythia bushes are often the only blasts of color to be seen in some people’s yards. We do have forsythia, and they do seem relatively undestroyed by the troupe of deer who live behind the tall old fir trees near the barn, but I don’t know if this deer-hate-yellow thing is just a suburban legend or if there is science behind it.

The flower that I really love now, in early spring, is the daffodil. The deer never do seem to touch them. Our Nikko blue and Annabelle white hydrangeas have been decimated, as have our old roses of pink and white, but the several varieties of sunshine-colored daffodils return each spring like the swallows. 

It is the variety, indeed, that I love the most, and we must have half a dozen different sorts of daffodils, from the ruffly many-cupped old-fashioned ones tinged with green to the classic canary-yellow trumpet-shaped cup to white ones with an orange center.

I’ve had neighbors complain about the little yellow flowers that carpet our yard. Apparently they can pose a danger of invading a more carefully groomed lawn. So far, that hasn’t really turned out to be a problem, at least on my side of the fence. Did I mention that these little flowers open with the sun and close as the sun goes down? Who wouldn’t love a flower that does that?

Readers this week will notice a fresh focus on travel in The Star. Two projects, a culinary tour of Greece with Florence Fabricant in September and a brand-new Travel quarterly are in this week’s issue. How and why we are taking this new tack here is worth explaining.

The Greece tour came about after our partner, Thalassa Journeys, asked Florence Fabricant of The New York Times to lead a small group on a winding food-and-wine arc from Kavála to Thessaloniki. Wine will lead the way, with near-daily visits to vineyards in the less-touristed northern corner of Greece. There will be an outing to the Vikos Gorge, which is thought of as the Grand Canyon of Europe, and visits to ancient cultural sites.

Ms. Fabricant began as a food writer here at The Star when my father was the editor. Her very first “In Season” column for us was about the joys of corn in August. Today, in addition to The Times, she writes cookbooks and in the summer hosts the hugely popular “Stirring the Pot” series of talks with leading chefs at Guild Hall. The pairing, if you will, between her and The Star seems natural. A brochure went in the mail to Star print subscribers this week; we have extra copies at the office, for those who did not get one.

As noted, our first Travel section is part of this week’s edition, which also has a two-part garden and landscape section. Travel sprang from an observation from Judy D’Mello, a contributing writer here and former reporter, who said Star staff tend to go on very interesting vacations. It immediately seemed a good idea, so we gave Judy the go-ahead.

While The New York Times Sunday Travel section is a must-read for many, part of the argument for a travel section in a local newspaper is that plenty of others do not see it. Planning ahead for some of the bigger adventures, such as Judy’s trip to Bhutan, requires lots of lead time for visas and visitors permits. Other choices, like the “Getaway” feature I wrote for a Greenport day trip, can occur whenever the fancy moves you.

It might seem odd to be thinking about travel on the eve of the summer season, but there is no time like right now to think about seeing the world — even if it’s just a couple of ferry fares away.

As constant readers, those of a certain age at any rate, undoubtedly noticed, when I wrote two weeks ago that I was paying $65 a week to rent a one-room apartment in Alphabet City in 1965, I was wrong. 

The monthly rent was indeed, as I had originally written, $65 a month. But then, wondering if there ever were a time when landlords, even in the East Village, charged tenants a mere $16.25 a week — substantially less than what you’d pay for a bottle of Mud House, Frenzy, or Cairnbrae now — I panicked and called in to stop the presses. 

Of course, the nice thing now is that a reporter or columnist can plead to being not entirely guilty inasmuch as an error in Thursday’s print edition can be set right by Friday in the website one. 

Yes, $65 a month. I know because I read it in the first “Point of View” I ever wrote, dated Oct. 26, 1967, which I found in a folder in my desk’s upper-left-hand drawer, a folder that I had intended to be opened only in the case of my death, but which I might as well dip into now, shamelessness apparently being in vogue nowadays. . . .

“. . . My one-room apartment, whose walls I painted yellow, red, green, and candy-striped, was a real joy. When the cockroaches shyly hid on the arrival of guests, I worried.” (N.B., Mary.)

“My landlady, Mrs. Messina [I got that right], a Hogarthian character, told me to ‘bar your door — people are crazy these days.’ But what was there to steal? I felt this way despite the fact I probably lived in the high-rent district, since I paid $65 a month for my apartment, slightly more than I could have received from a weekly welfare check.”

I was just about ready to go on unemployment when The Times hired me as a copy boy — at around $65 a week, I imagine, for I do remember having adhered rather closely to the tenet that no more than a quarter of one’s income should go to housing. That advice is a stretch now. Those were the days.

At any rate, until summoned several months later to apprentice in Riverhead with Larry Penny’s late older brother, Art, a Long Island Press reporter and Times stringer on weekends, I was rather content living on society’s margins as I recall — sufficiently desperate, I suppose, not to feel so.

Sufficiently trusting too in my invincible surmise that in time all would work out. 

And, lo, that’s what happened. All — well, just about all — are working out these days.

A funeral service last weekend, and the reception afterward, seemed the embodiment of community. The memorial gathering was held at St. Luke’s Episcopal Church for the late Edwin Geus, with a gathering later around long tables, each decorated with spring daffodils, at the East Hampton Firehouse. Mr. Geus had served as a longstanding volunteer for both the East Hampton Fire Department and the East Hampton Village Ambulance Association, and members attended in uniform; a well-polished fire truck and ambulance stood like an honor guard outside the church, behind Town Pond.

I am always curious and interested when personal connections bring me into a church — being Jewish, myself, and having been raised in a moderately religious household (kosher, at least in my early childhood). East Hampton, founded by Congregationalists, used to be almost exclusively a Christian community. Today, the majority might still identify themselves as Christian — Episcopalian, Presbyterian, Methodist — even if they don’t spend much time at services.

Anyway, I disavowed what others call faith long ago, in childhood, when my parents tried without success to send me to the Sunday school of a Reform synagogue. 

In my twenties, I was working at the Columbia University School of Journalism, as secretary of one of the deans, when I met the East Hampton native I was to marry. One of my colleagues at “J school,” as we called it, warned me to watch out: Anti-Semitism in such a town, she said, would be wicked. It turned out that the community I joined was welcoming instead.

Jeannette Edwards Rattray, my mother-in-law, made me comfortable right off. Her daughter had already broken any lurking religious taboo by marrying a man who was defined as an artist, rather than by the fact that he happened to be Jewish (although artists weren’t so revered here yet and it wasn’t obvious that East Hampton was going to become a 20th-century artists’ haven).

During my first summer in East Hampton, I heard an anecdote about how Mrs. Rattray gave a not-too-distant relative the business while table-hopping at Chez Labbat, the only sophisticated restaurant here at the time. He had stopped to complain that Jews were taking over Lily Pond Lane. She herself had married a worldly man “from away,” Arnold Rattray, and while conservative in some ways was progressive about religious freedoms and bigotry, and she read her rude relative the riot act. 

The East End, it turned out, had been a fairly worldly place for a hundred years or more. There was the broadening influence of artists and actors, since the late 19th century. Sag Harbor had a large Jewish population, based around its watch-case and silver factories’ need for skilled workers. (The journalist Karl Grossman is known for scholarship about the early Jewish community in the Harbor, as his frequent lectures attest.) 

Today, I no longer think of myself as a liberal New Yorker, but as a liberal-minded member of the East Hampton community, which never was as homogenous as some might think. We are not free of anti-Semitism here, that is certainly true. But, still, if only the rest of the world could mix and mingle as peaceably as we.

The word is out about a pair of eagles nesting near the water in Springs. Not much stays secret in this town, and thanks to social media, birdwatching sometimes seems like a game of one-upmanship in which the first person to get a photograph of a particularly charismatic species can claim bragging rights. Most times, getting close enough to wildlife to take a photograph with an ordinary camera or phone is too close.

Some friends told me of a person in a pickup truck who was parked in a saltmarsh the other day for about four hours, peering at eagles through binoculars. One friend, worried about the effect of visitors, has been putting up “no trespassing” signs, including one warning of dire consequences for setting foot on Gardiner’s Island, which he had found on the beach.

Bald eagles favor fish, which is probably why the East End of Long Island is attractive to them. Osprey, with whom eagles compete for food and nest platforms, have been extremely put out, screeching angrily as generally indifferent and far larger eagles go about their business.

Clamming at Three Mile Harbor on Sunday with a friend and my son, I noticed an eagle sitting on an oak limb 60 feet or more above the water on a bluff. Nearby, a fish hawk, as my father called osprey and I did in my youth, mobbed it the way blackbirds do a red-tailed hawk that enters their territory.

After bald eagles were all but wiped out by the early 1970s in New York due to the use of shell-weakening pesticides, state authorities began to release hand-reared nestlings, brought to the state mostly from Alaska. By 1989, there were 10 breeding pairs doing their thing upstate. Twenty years later, the number has grown to 173 pairs and continues to climb. 

New York’s bald eagles have now pushed south and east into our area. Pairs, which mate for life, also tend to return to the same nesting area each spring, meaning that their offspring have to move on in search of spaces of their own.

In Springs, friends have seen people in a kayak coming close to nesting eagles for a better look. Whether it was too close they were unable to say, but their story reminded my of those knuckleheads who get out of their vehicles in the national parks to taunt moose, bears, or bison, and then, if they are lucky, get away with just an antler up the patootie.

I suggested my friends put up a perimeter of floating line and found buoys. I’d even help, I said. They declined, but the offer still stands. 

The other night, as we talked of Joe Biden’s predicament, it occurred to me that I, a diffident WASP not programmed to show much emotion, was at first bemused when men began hugging men in America — about 40 or so years ago, I think. 

“Did you say that you were ‘uncomfortable?’ ” asked Mary, who has wondered why the women now accusing Biden of unwanted attention in the past didn’t say so if they felt so at the time.

“No, I didn’t,” I said. “Anyway, perhaps because I’m a WASP, I’m uncomfortable using the word ‘uncomfortable.’ Nor was I reaching out in those days.”

“You reached out to me. . . .” 

“Indeed I did, and have been forever blessed for having done so.” 

The hugging custom must have made its way from abroad to the younger generation, for I don’t remember anybody with whom I grew up doing it. I don’t remember being hugged by my father, or by my stepfather. We shook hands — that was the manly thing, especially at an all-male boarding school where, I think it’s fair to say, we were not, most of us anyway, in touch with our feelings. 

I’ve since come around, and though I generally don’t initiate them, I’m touched when hugs come my way, whether from sons-in-law or grandchildren. They hug me, I hug them. I’ve become much more comfortable with the practice, much more at ease with openness, with intimacy. It’s a sign that, at least when it comes to human interaction, we’ve evolved. 

So, I think politicians, pressers of the flesh by profession, ought — especially nowadays when “personal space” has, and with reason, become such a touchy subject — to be given some benefit of the doubt when there is doubt, as is the case with Biden, who seems surprised (and chastened) that in some cases he, a layer-on of hands guy, has given offense. 

Karen Tumulty said the other night on the “PBS NewsHour” that she didn’t think what he’d been accused of doing was so grievous as to pre-empt redemption. Uncle Joe says he gets it, and for that he deserves a hug.

How could I possibly have fallen for it — me, of all people, who’s been editing the Star’s police reports for more years than I care to remember?

All year long people keep getting taken in by the same scams, which, like ospreys and pumpkins, arrive with the season. Early spring brings the I.R.S. scam, aimed at stealing money or tax data as April 15 approaches (“I am calling from the Internal Revenue Service. A warrant for your arrest will be issued unless. . . .”). When leaves fall, along comes the home improvement scam (“Hi there, Ms. X, our records show your chimney’s due for cleaning. . . .”). As Memorial Day draws near, complaints about the Airbnb scam swell the police logs in East Hampton and other tourist destinations (renters, having been directed to a fraudulent website to finalize payment, arrive at their ideal summer cottage to find it doesn’t exist). And let us not forget the puppy-for-Christmas scam (you pay in advance for the puppy, which is in some far away kennel; then you’re asked to send money for shots before it can travel, then more for insurance, then more for shipping, and so on until you finally go to the cops).

More frequent than any other, though — a scam for all seasons, you might say — is the one I was targeted by a few weeks ago.

Phone rings. “Hello?”

“Hello, Gramma?” It’s our 17-year-old grandson. He almost never calls, but there’s no question. It’s his voice, his intonation. It’s him.

“Robby? Is something wrong? Why are you calling at 6 in the morning?” (It’s 9 a.m. here, but he lives in Oregon, three hours behind us.)

There’s static on the phone; then someone else comes on.

“Hello, this is. . . .” (Who? What did he say his name was? Before I can ask, he hurries on.)

“I’m a lawyer, and I’m here with Robert. He is being held on charges of reckless endangerment and criminal obstruction.”

My head spins, my heart turns over, I sink into the nearest chair. The morning’s errands are forgotten. This phone call is all there is.

Robby (speaking fast, sounding scared): “Gramma I was driving last night and the cellphone rang and I let it ring but it kept on ringing so I picked it up and this other car was turning and I hit it and the police came.”

A nightmare. I can hardly speak. “Was anyone hurt?”  

No, he says, but he is in jail, and they want $3,000 to let him out.

“Have you called Bernard?” (our son, his father). “Have you called Cathy?” (our ex-daughter-in-law, his mother).

“No, please don’t tell them!” Now he sounds panicky.  

The “lawyer” comes back on. “We can deal with this,” he says. “I happen to know the judge who will hear the case later today, and I will stay right here with Robert until he is released. I will stay here with him as long as it takes.”

He comes across as calm, confident, cool. I thank him, shaking. I ask his name again. “Gary Gould,” he says. He spells it. I ask for his phone number. It starts with 202. 

“But, but, the Oregon area code is 503,” I stammer. 

“I have offices in Washington,” he says smoothly. That makes sense. Washington State is Oregon’s neighbor to the north.

“I’m doing this for Robert because, in a way, I feel responsible for what happened,” he goes on. “It was my son who made that cellphone call he picked up. They’re good friends. My wife and I know Cathy and Bernard, too.”

Now it’s clear why he’s there with Rob in the jail and has promised to stay. A concerned father, and he knows our son.

Go to the bank, he says. Get the money in cash. A Brink’s truck will come to your house to pick it up.

My husband is Googling “Gary Gould.” He’s suspicious. Heedless, beside myself, I rush away.

A few minutes later I’m at the Chase Bank in East Hampton, telling them I urgently need a lot of cash. There’s no line, what luck. I make out a withdrawal slip, I take it to the teller. Her nametag says “Doris.”

Doris sees my agitation. Quietly, she asks a few questions. I blurt out my story while she’s counting out the money. She understands, she sympathizes, she inspires confidence. “I think you need to be very careful,” she says finally, handing me the envelope. “Don’t be in a hurry. This sounds to me like a scam. Brink’s would never send a truck to a private home.”

I am hardly out the bank door when it sinks in: Of course it’s a scam, it has to be, it has all the earmarks described in our police reports, and I am as much a dimwit for believing it as all the other marks. I have fallen, hard, for the ever-popular Grandparent Scam, which begins with your “grandson” (it’s always a male caller; if you say you have no grandsons they hang up) saying he needs money right away to post bail, pay for an ambulance, pay a kidnapper, whatever.

Maybe my scammers, with the “lawyer” who picked up fast on my mentioning the names of Robby’s parents, were quicker on the draw than most, but come on. A Brink’s truck? Preposterous, right? But it had gone right by me, blind with worry. Now that I thought of it, how would an envelope full of cash get to Portland, Ore., that same day?

Our son was out of town, so we called his ex, who said Robby’d been asleep in his bed all night and she’d just dropped him off at school. Soon after, he called himself.

  “Gramma,” he said, “that wasn’t me.” 

“I know it wasn’t you, Rob — but it was your voice!”

Long pause. “Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure. Grandpa said so too. That’s why I never thought to question it.”

“Then I’ve gotta change all my passwords. My cellphone’s been hacked.”

Hackers can steal your actual voice, he explained. There’s an app for it. It sounds like science fiction, but no. Turns out it’s a well-known scam called “Can You Hear Me.” According to Google, “it happens when you answer the phone and the person on the other line asks ‘Can you hear me?’ and you respond. Your voice is being recorded to obtain a voice signature for scammers.”

There was no lawyer named Gary Gould on Google, either in Washington State or Washington, D.C. When the phone rang again, Sidney answered. 

“I can’t find you on Google,” he began. The line went dead. 

Irene Silverman is The Star’s editor at large.

Does anyone still chant this nursery rhyme? Once upon a time, I think, everyone knew which child they were:

Monday’s child is fair of face

Tuesday’s child is full of grace

Wednesday’s child is full of woe

Thursday’s child has far to go

Friday’s child is loving and giving

Saturday’s child works hard for his living

And the child that is born on the Sabbath day

Is bonny and blithe, and good and gay.

My mother recited it to me as a child, and she certainly knew I was born on a Saturday. Did she believe what the rhyme had to say? Was she tempting fate? I wish she were here to ask.

Excising the male pronoun, the rhyme rings true where I am concerned. I not only work hard, 

but wouldn’t know what to do if I didn’t.

  Decades ago, when I inherited The Star and the responsibilities that came with it, I dived right in. I was in my 40s then. Friends worried that I wasn’t cooking much and brought over casseroles so the kids were well fed. They seemed to marvel at my ability to take over, even though I would insist it was only a matter of hard work.

Whether it actually was harder to put out the paper at that time is debatable. It certainly took longer than it does today: We routinely could be found burning the midnight oil on a Wednesday night. The methods of production were time consuming, involving X-Acto knives and an electric contraption that melted wax that held galleys to the page. Many of us used manual typewriters — not even electric — well into the 1980s. We were early adopters of the computer, and a program called XyWrite for what we called “word processing” (kind of a funny term, if you think about it), but I don’t remember it speeding things up much.

In the 1960s, The Star was dependent on old-fashioned Linotype machines, into which heavy lead “pigs” were fed to be melted and transformed into type, but when I took over we had moved on to photo-offset typesetting. 

Saturdays were not, actually, my favorite day of the week. The work of putting out the paper was done, the office was closed, and I didn’t know what to do with a long afternoon. 

Eventually, I put my hard-work instincts to use for my favorite side project, the Choral Society of the Hamptons. After I joined — wouldn’t you know it — I soon started writing press releases and doing fund-raising . . . and the work goes on.

And, of course, I am in my 80s now, but I refuse to retire. The truth is that the editing I do at The Star isn’t hard work at all, because I love it.