The heat went out at home on Sunday night, though I did not mention it before bedtime. Instead, I put a space heater in the coldest bedroom of the house and hoped the rest of the rooms would not get too cold before a repairman arrived in the morning.

Adelia, back from boarding school for the Thanksgiving break, texted from her room in the morning wondering what was up. But by that time, I had called McCoy Fuels and built a fire in the kitchen fireplace to have a little heat to drink my coffee by. 

Leo the pig, sharply affronted by the temperature in the house, let his feelings be known by knocking over my favorite wooden chair and then standing close to the hearth. Sitting at the table as the sun brightened the sky, I drank two cups of coffee before going into the basement to make room for the oil burner guy. (It is always overloaded.)

It was a relatively easy fix, as it turned out. A transformer needed replacement, and the heat was back by 9:30.

A couple of years ago, a plumber looked at the house’s heating system and said it was past time for a new one. With all the money saved on oil, it would pay for itself right away, he said. 

I either forgot about getting prices on a new boiler or put it on a low-priority mental list of things to deal with, and then forgot, the same way I notice then forget the reminders from the fuel company to get the annual cleaning done on the oil burner. 

The way it is with things around the house, there is always something else to think about. Not infrequently I declare to anyone who will listen that I am going to chuck it all and go live in a yurt. But yurts are probably a pain in the neck, too. Plus, now that the oil burner is working again, at least there is heat.

I am not sure how that would work in a yurt. And I am sure the pig would be none too pleased. Well, that and I should probably go solar anyway.

Going to the internet to read what commentators have been saying about what the Trump administration might mean for the press, I was stunned by these words on the back of a black T-shirt worn by a man at a Trump rally: “Rope.Tree. Journalist. Some Assembly Required.”

The president-elect has never used these hateful words, himself, and if he ever hinted that journalists should be lynched, he would have been speaking metaphorically, of course. He has, however, made it clear that he considers reporters to be sneaks, cheats, conspirators, and villains. (Sneaks, cheats, conspirators, and villains motivated by sheer dastardliness, apparently: Heaven knows reporters don’t do it for the money or the love.) Mr. Trump has called the news media “dishonest,” “lying,” “dis­gusting,” “corrupt,” and “scum,” and he has vowed to make it easier to sue newspapers for libel.

One of his favorite supporters, Fox’s Sean Hannity, has gone so far as to say Mr. Trump should refuse to allow The New York Times and The Washington Post, among others, to have White House credentials.

Barring potential critics and ushering in those “journalists” who fall in line? Has the president-elect heard about the First Amendment? Does he care about the principles of freedom it enshrines? Has he read the Bill of Rights at all?

In an interview on CNN (a news station Mr. Trump has railed against, naturally), Floyd Abrams, a highly respected lawyer dedicated to First Amendment cases, noted that there are no federal libel laws; they differ from state to state. I hope that Mr. Trump has become aware of this fact by now — though, as I write this, I’m not sure he would care, even if he is aware of it. 

Mr. Abrams expressed the concern that Mr. Trump’s denigration of the media “could lead the public to be so anti-press” that even if it didn’t destroy the it, it could “lead the public to limit its constitutionally protected role.” 

Mr. Trump may have gone to Wharton for an undergraduate program, but his education, clearly, was lacking when it came time for classes on the rule of law.

From where I sit, it seems that our current national crisis was in at least some measure made possible by the crisis in professional journalism. Newspapers, unable to compete with no-cost pseudo-news spread via social media, have had to shut down across the country. Will Americans see the value of paying for reliable news  — from professionals dedicated to best ethical practices —  only too late?

 Whatever Mr. Trump throws at journalists in this country, however, pales in comparison with the violence journalists encounter elsewhere. A recent report from the Committee to Protect Journalists said 450 journalists around the world had been forced into exile since 2010; Syria had expelled 101, Ethiopia 57, and Iran 52. Being kicked out of the White House, if it comes to that, wouldn’t seem like such a big deal . . . if it didn’t signal the coming administration’s possible first step toward an unconstitutional and unAmerican silencing of the healthy questioning and criticism that is so necessary to good government.

Now, mind you, I am definitely not one who believes that nasty things emblazoned on T-shirts should be censored. On occasion, when The Star has been hotly criticized for publishing bigoted or hate-filled letters against individuals or groups, I have tried to remind readers that the First Amendment is intended to guarantee the expression of language and opinions that are unpopular or even offensive. That is the very crux of free speech: The majority’s accepted opinions need no protection. 

And that is precisely what the Founding Fathers, in their wisdom, grasped so clearly so long ago: When, God forbid, the majority of Americans embraced ideologies or actions that were dangerously wrong and a danger to democracy, it would be the duty of dissenters to speak out in protest. Their right to do that, under the First Amendment, and the right of the press to report on 0ould stand between us and tyranny.

Wouldn’t you know it. No sooner do I write a column about how inveterately optimistic and cheery I am than this happens. 

Of course I’m talking about the Steelers, who’ve been losing, losing, losing. When are they going to become great again? 

Their gradual decline, I think, is traceable to those clownish uniforms, the ones dating to 1934. That was a Depression year, right? Depression as in depressing. 

And, as if the Steelers’ swoon weren’t enough, we’ve now got the rough beast, its hour come round at last, slouching toward D.C. to be born. 

Surely some revelation is at hand. . . . It’s mourning in America . . . well, in East Hampton at least.

But mordancy is not my strong suit. I told Mary, who kept vigil until 2:30 a.m., long after I had gone to bed (staying up even longer than I had for the seventh game of the World Series), that I would go take it out on tennis balls in that morning’s stroke-of-the-week clinic. Her last words to me were, “But play with grace.” 

The clinic, with Brian Rubenstein, was just what I needed. I left with my forehand rejuvenated, thanks to his tips, feeling good about myself and ready again to contemplate sui . . . no, no, ready again to contemplate the fall colors.

I must get over it, I must. Life goes on, but I couldn’t help but appreciate the irony in the fact that I’d (for the most part, for the most part . . . I can’t at this late date make any ironclad guarantees) given up drinking a few days before election night, which I managed to endure in a state of stark, raving sobriety. 

If truth be told, I did think of voting more than once, for the first time that I can recall. Perhaps my late mother-in-law’s name was still on the rolls in Amagansett. . . . Mary said she still had her driver’s license . . . I would buy a wig. . . . It’s the kind of fantasizing that inevitably floats to the surface in phantasmagoric, funhouse mirror times.

One still wonders what the underlying rationale of the seething legions was: A puffed-up billionaire says he will save you, that you should just trust him, and nobody — at least to my knowledge — in the middle class demands that he flesh out the particulars. Will their faith be rewarded by the groper in chief? We’ll see.

But enough. Robin says that rather than mire ourselves in cynicism we must set an example, that that’s the only way. Amen to that.

According to Kathleen Wall of the museum at Plymouth, Mass., the colonists and their Wampanoag guests in 1621 ate shellfish and wildfowl, perhaps with herbs and berries, but their meat was accompanied by no potatoes. Neither white nor sweet potatoes had arrived in Europe or Britain yet, and the colonists were unfamiliar with the dubious tubers; it would be another 50 years before a letter home to England spoke of cranberries being boiled with sugar to make a sauce. Ms. Wall believes that the 150 people who celebrated that three-day feast drank . . . water. 

We’re not quite that traditional in our family, but I like to think we take a leaf from the first Thanksgiving by keeping everything — as we have done since long, long before “locavore” became a word — local and homemade. It will be a Ludlow farm turkey from Mecox; for the broiled oysters, a topping made with sorrel (which I no longer seem able to grow) from the Halseys of the Green Thumb in Water Mill; cranberry relish made with berries hand-picked on Napeague by grandkids and their dads, and clams from good old Bonac. 

We are celebrating Thanksgiving at home with lots of relatives this year, and I have been energized by the planning. That The Star is published early this week, a day before the holiday, means that I and most of the staff will have rare free time on Wednesday. I have been happily bustling about, gathering the ingredients, taking out the best silverware, china, and linens, and enlisting everyone to tie on their aprons and chop, slice, mince, and bake. I am grateful for it all.

But, this year, I would also hope that as we gather to remember all we have to be thankful for, we also recognize the dark side of what might be called the American personality — and consider what might be done about it.

In the last few weeks, hateful words and incidents have proliferated, with swastikas defacing playgrounds in Brooklyn and KKK fliers found on the train at the station in Amagansett. I am especially grateful that I live in a humanistic environment, among strangers as well as friends and family who believe in the Golden Rule and try to act accordingly: “Do unto others as you would have others to do unto you,” Matthew: 7:12. “Thou shall love thy neighbor as thyself,” Leviticus 19:18.

I’m an agnostic, but the season inspired me to look into what the various religious traditions say about kindness to others. They all agree. Muhammad, I recently discovered, is reported in the books of Islam to have offered this version of the Golden Rule: “None of you has faith until he loves for his brother or his neighbor what he loves of himself.” Hinduism offers similar advice, and Confucius may actually have been the one to put it like this: “Do not do to others what you do not want them to do to you.”

I am grateful for tranquility at Thanksgiving on the East End, but am afraid that too many citizens both near and far have forgotten the Golden Rule, deeply concerned that too many of our neighbors are not feeling as safe and secure this week as they should — indeed, as they have a Constitutional right to — feel.

From New York City’s Rikers Island to Guantanamo Bay in Cuba and Bagram, Afghanistan, the evidence of outright disregard for human life continues to haunt the conscience of Americans — or, at least, it should.

A friend recently forwarded to me a paragraph from Representative John Lewis’s 1998 book, “Walking With the Wind: A Memoir of the Movement.” We would all do well to follow his lead:

“When I care about something, when I commit to it, I am prepared to take the long, hard road, knowing it may not happen today or tomorrow, but ultimately, eventually, it will happen. . . . People who are like fireworks, popping off right and left with lots of sound and sizzle, can capture a crowd, capture a lot of attention for a time, but I always have to ask, where will they be at the end? Some battles are long and hard, and you have to have staying power. Firecrackers go off in a flash, then leave nothing but ashes. I prefer a pilot light — the flame is nothing flashy, but once it is lit, it doesn’t go out. It burns steadily, and it burns forever.” Amen

Does merely passing through someplace on a bus count as actually visiting that place?

Not really, I have been told. Maybe it’s a superficial way to see what a small piece of a place looks like, but there is limited opportunity for a meaningful cultural exchange.

Consider my experiences on Shelter Island. I am a fairly recent arrival on the East End, having lived here for about a year and nine months, but I had never really spent time on Shelter Island.

My significant other, Jason, himself a recent arrival in my life, was a bit incredulous when I told him this. He’s a big fan of Shelter Island and resolved to take me there for a date. My only experience there was a bus ride I took as a reporter in the spring of 2015 with a group of John M. Marshall Elementary School fifth graders who were on their way to a field trip on Plum Island. The ride was fun and interesting, but mostly because fifth graders are pretty hilarious. However, I wouldn’t have described that trip as a meaningful cultural exchange.

That changed on the afternoon of Nov. 20, when Jason and I loaded our car onto the South Ferry with a plan to drive around the town, visit Black Cat Books, break in my new digital camera with some candid photography, and meet friends for dinner at Commander Cody’s.

The start of the trip was far from auspicious. It was raining and the wind had seriously picked up. Our car was first in line on the ferry, so it was a bit like riding in the first car of a roller coaster, which I normally like to do. This was different, though, and as water splashed horizontally across the windshield and the ferry rocked hard on the waves, the song playing on the radio was “Cold Water” by Major Lazer and Justin Bieber.

Stop judging my taste in music. For those who haven’t had the pleasure of listening to the lyrics, the chorus begins like this: “And if you feel you’re sinking, I will jump right over into cold, cold water for you.”

Jason turned the radio off and held my hand.

I sighed in relief when we finally got off the ferry. I had been holding my breath. 

However gloomy the weather, Shelter Island welcomed me with the charming feel of a New England seaside village. The architecture intrigued me everywhere we went. I imagined myself living in a house there someday (then promptly imagined an almost daily round trip by ferry to work, at which point the anxiety returned). Why hadn’t I noticed the beautiful houses the last time I was here? Oh, right — that bus full of excited fifth graders was pretty distracting.

We drove to Ram’s Island, where Jason explained that the land bridge we were driving on is called a tombolo and told me all about the Shelter Island Conference of 1947. I later did a Google search to learn more about how the field of quantum physics was essentially born at the Ram’s Head Inn following World War II — fascinating. Sometimes you just never know what you don’t know.

At Black Cat Books, the floor-to-ceiling shelves of used and rare books were pretty exciting. After much exploration, my reading list grew by one — a second-hand copy of “Gone Girl” that Jason bought for me — and I found a Christmas gift for a family member: a hardcover book of reproductions of sketches by a famous Japanese artist. 

The sun finished setting while we were inside Black Cat. Not long after we emerged and began driving again, some illuminated stained-glass windows in a building on a side road caught my eye. The rows of vertical windows with stunning colors are embedded in my mind, but I can’t figure out what building it was. It was so dark out, and I cannot recall what street we were on. Was it a church? Historical society center? Privately owned building? If anyone knows, please call me here at the Star office.

When our friends arrived, we headed to Commander Cody’s, which Jason had been talking up for weeks. The fried calamari was tender, clearly made fresh rather than from a frozen source. I burned my tongue on a spectacular cup of Manhattan clam chowder, then Jason and I shared a pound of killer baby back ribs and a plate of fish and chips. I can see why it’s his favorite restaurant.

We headed home after that. Because top-40 hits are all radio stations seem to play these days, we heard “Cold Water” again on the ferry ride back. That got turned off, too.

With regard to the to-do list we’d set out with, we accomplished almost everything. I took exactly one photo with my new camera the entire time we were there, and it’s pretty terrible. But I have a strong feeling I’ll be back for more.

Christine Sampson is a reporter at The Star.

My wife and I had been tuning into C-Span since we first were connected to cable. “Thank you for C-Span” was a standard opening for callers talking live on the network’s broad array of shows.

The network, founded by Brian Lamb as a not-for-profit in 1979, was dedicated originally to airing every second of every session of the House of Representatives. There was always time to kill between sessions, and an eclectic, fascinating, and varied string of guests would appear in segments frequently moderated by Mr. Lamb. The guests spanned the political spectrum, all the way out to the fringes in each direction.

So, too, did the callers. “Thank you for C-Span,” many would say, before launching into sometimes bizarre critiques of the federal government or one or both major political parties.

I remember during the 1992 presidential election, a group of political journalists were fielding calls from uncommitted voters. They were analyzing people’s fears about the election. One woman caller said, “I’m afraid.” A panelist tried to draw her out, but came to the simple conclusion, after a few moments, that “this woman is afraid.” 

The network gave, and gives to this day, a voice to those who may not have been ready for prime time, but had a point of view nonetheless.

In the late 1990s, I began noticing a reporter named Chuck Todd on C-Span. He was not afraid to get into the not-so-sexy workings of government. He would talk about an obscure bill before a committee and get into the details. His thirst for knowledge, his quest for understanding, and his calm, sober demeanor were a refreshing change from the entertainers posing as newsmen across the cable networks.

He also understood the political process, beyond the simple division of Democrat vs. Republican or right vs. left.

Eventually, he caught the eye of Tim Russert, who brought him over to NBC as the political director for the network in 2007. There was a natural affinity between the two. Russert himself had an easygoing, inquisitive style that made “Meet the Press” the leading weekly news show in the country.

A year later, Russert died of a heart attack. NBC eventually settled on David Gregory as his replacement on the show, over Chuck Todd. Gregory was smooth, much smoother than Russert. The patrician Gregory had been the White House correspondent for the network, a role he was meant for. But he lacked the nuts-and-bolts wonkishness of Russert. The show went into a slow, steady ratings decline. Finally, in 2014, NBC made the move they should have made six years earlier, moving Todd into the role of host of the Sunday morning show.

It immediately became one of two political shows I would watch every week, the other being “Washington Week in Review.” Gwen Ifill also had Russert as a mentor. She, too, was a serious journalist in a sea of glitzy, noisy talking heads.

Todd talked about her death Sunday. “Gwen was a trailblazer in our field. From newspaper reporter to NBC News correspondent to co-anchor of the ‘News­Hour’ and of course, host of ‘Washington Week,’ she broke a barrier everywhere she went,” Todd said. Gwen was tough and fair, and, at the same time, brought so much joy to her work, not to mention, she had a great B.S. detector, something many politicians learned the hard way. She made everyone around this table a lot smarter.”

And all of us, too.

T.E. McMorrow is a reporter for The Star. 

I’ve been reading in comparative mythology recently, about ritual regicide, virgin births, thefts of fire, trees of life and of death, resurrections . . . that kind of thing, and apparently, at least according to Joseph Campbell, it’s all one — more or less the same stories and symbols from Day One aimed at reconciling earth with the heavens. 

“Ad astrum per aspera,” I said to O’en this morning as we headed, with hope, for The Star. And no sooner had I sat down than the phone rang. A call from the West Coast, from my erstwhile doubles partner, Gary Bowen, with whom I’ve won East Hampton Indoor tournaments in successive summers. 

He hesitated at first when I answered. “Do I sound like Mary?” I asked.

Well, yes, as a matter of fact, he said, I did. 

“We’re becoming one!” I said. “Like the myths — the earth goddess entwined double helix-like with the slayer of aging doubles teams.”

We talked about meeting up around February (when our ninth grandchild is to be born out there) and were commiserating about the winter and the election and about how we yearned to scrap the rurally biased Electoral College when he had to sign off to go do battle.

I shall gird my loins tomorrow, at high noon, and it is in this wise that we agile-for-our-age septuagenarians, not unmindful of our blessings, aim for the stars — engraved plaques at least. 

The Independent today quoted Einstein to the effect that to some nothing in life is miraculous and to some everything is. I would definitely put O’en, our 5-month-old white golden, in the latter camp. 

“We think nothing of walking around the block, but can you imagine what it’s like to walk around the block for him?!” I asked Mary. A garden of delights — the effluvia ever new all the time. Transcendence in the temporal. Beset by fear and desire we cling — that’s our “leash.” He is not so constrained — he just is.

We agreed that we should follow his lead. And in fact that is, when we are out on our walks, what we usually do

David Brooks wrote recently about the lack of trust in our society, and how corrosive walling oneself off can be when it comes to the intermingling a thriving democracy requires.

Still, when Sinead FitzGibbon recently said concerning a golf lesson I planned to take that it was “a social game,” I replied — by way of explaining why I hadn’t played it — that I had no friends. (Other than Mary, of course.) But that I did exult in having a great number of acquaintances.

“I do a lot of my socializing at the dump,” I told her.

“Like we used to do at Mass,” she said.

“Yes, I get a lot of story ideas there — I should set up a desk and put up a sign saying, ‘The Quote Doctor Is In.’ ”

“The dump,” she concluded with a smile, “is the new Mass!”

“One does feel a bit righteous while recycling there, sorting out the wheat from the corn.” 

I recalled that her father, who is 86, once said he’d take up golf when he was old. 

“He still hasn’t,” she said.

And her mother, who, she said, was my age, which is to say 76, had “just signed up for a 100K bike ride.”

“And when will you take up tennis?” I said.

“When I’m old,” she said.

If old has to do with feeling weaker, then I am not — at least not at this moment in time. I have Rob Balnis at East End Physical Therapy to thank for that, or perhaps he and the life force left over from the Antareans’ visit 10,000 years ago. The residuum may be in the fern boles that O’en likes to dig up in our backyard. I won’t know for sure until I jump into the Y’s pool. 

Anima Sana in Corpore Sano. That’s the motto of the ASICS tennis sneakers I wear, though, while my corpore’s sano (for the moment, I say), my anima ain’t so sana. Aside from the question of trusting my fellows, I’m having difficulty trusting myself. Mary has said they ought to have a lost and found container at East Hampton Indoor Tennis just for me. I would say she’s as forgetful as I am, but that observation is skewed by the fact that she has many more things to forget than I do — a cellphone, its charger, rings, airline tickets, checkbooks, passports, other vitally important documents, crucial internet passwords, and the like. So, let’s just say she’s much less forgetful, but loses more things. 

I would say that that’s good news for me, for should I find whatever it is she’s missing, I can add indulgences, as it were, to the pile against the day when — through no fault of my own, of course — I may fall out of grace and be consigned to do all my socializing at the dump.

It was Tuesday night when it occurred to me that I hadn’t — because I was flying back from having spent the weekend in Pittsburgh — seen the first half of the Steelers’ delightful 24-14 win that Sunday over the Giants.

Mary had recorded it, and so it was with a light heart that I headed down the hall, with her behind me, toward the larger TV where I presumed she’d show me — yet again, for I have never kept pace with change — how to summon it up.

“Was it the football game you were interested in?” she asked when we got there.

“Well, just the first half — I saw the second half, you’ll remember, when I got home. The Steelers were leading 14-0 at the half, so I thought it would be fun to watch.”

“Uh-oh,” she said. “I thought you’d watched the whole game — I deleted it.”

“You . . . deleted it. . . ?”

“Yes, forgive me, forgive me,” she said, pitiably. “Maybe I can retrieve it. . . .”

“That’s a venal . . . no, no, that’s a mortal sin, you know. Now, I’ll have to read about Emily Dickinson!”

Well, it serves me right for persisting in ignorance. I will have to learn how to record things myself. And anyway, she didn’t do it with full knowledge of the sin, the one, you know, having to do with the erasure of vitally important shows. 

“You’re forgiven — you’re not guilty!” I called out reassuringly toward the living room, where she was watching a Sam Shepard play, knowing that that would resonate particularly with her, who’s never forgotten the sign on the Pittsburgh bridge, the one painted 20 or so years ago, in big white letters, that said, “She’s Guilty.”

Why is it that women, the chief reason that there’s any joy in life, or any life for that matter, have received such short shrift by and large down the centuries, except for the few societies, like Crete, that were matriarchies?

She’s guilty? The church, and often society, would seem to have it so. 

Why that is I haven’t the remotest idea. 

And let it so be recorded.

The distance between my house and the Star office building is less than a hundred yards, and some of the nicest moments of otherwise ordinary days are spent walking between the two. It’s a quick moment of stolen solitude, to listen to the wind in the high trees and, quite often, the roar of the ocean, about a mile away. I am supposed to walk a lot, at least according to the medical profession. But hurriedness often intervenes, preventing me from scheduling longer, proper hikes, and this gives my many short back-and-forth trips between house and office more significance than they might otherwise merit.

Among the last people to leave the office after dark about two weeks ago, I was headed toward home when a vehicle followed me slowly with its headlights on, lighting my path up the dark lane. I had walked past the lamppost that marks the boundary between The Star’s driveway and the East Hampton Library parking lot next door and continued my slow perambulation toward my house without looking back to find out who was lighting my way.

The truth is, I cherish these walks despite the fact that a doctor told me not so long ago that my feet were “kaput.” Time was, way back when, that I spent several summers as a counselor at a phenomenal summer camp for inner-city children on a 1,000-acre tract of untouched woodland in the northwest corner of New Jersey, where it meets New York and Pennsylvania. Everything we did there was intended to be in harmony with nature, and I still try to reconnect with that feeling. Simple campsites were spread out through the woods, and it was a point of pride if you were a counselor moving alone at night not to use a flashlight; a flashlight would be almost a sin, out there between the trees and under the canopy of a star-dusted sky. Now, all these years later, as silly as it sounds —and despite my night vision no longer being the best — I still balk at carrying a flashlight, especially on familiar ground.

To be certain, I’m not exactly the surefooted person I once was, even on sidewalks. So even though I didn’t like the idea that someone in a vehicle following me home the other night apparently thought I needed help finding my way, I accepted it as a kind gesture. 

The vehicle and its headlights kept up with me and eventually turned around the circular driveway adjacent to my house as I was about to reach the front door. Seeing the vehicle for the first time — I hadn’t looked back to see who was following me because I wanted to prove I didn’t need any help — I saw a white pickup truck. Assuming my son, who owns one, was at the wheel, I offered a somewhat perfunctory wave of thanks. It wasn’t until the next day that I learned he had nothing to do with it. Who was at the wheel? I still don’t know.

There are many perks that come with growing older: Children who are now adults, if you are lucky enough to have some, will remind you of certain realities you ought not ignore. (For example, in my case, I am frequently instructed not to drive at night. And at Thanksgiving, one of my kids not only shared the preparations but just about took them over, and I was greatly relieved.) But, still, I naturally cringe when I watch or hear others tell their parents what to do and when to do it. They ought not to forget that it’s empowering to be left to your own devices for as long as possible. So, whoever the mysterious Good Samaritan was, with the headlights behind me: Thank you so much . . . but no thanks.