When Rob Balnis asked if I were coming to work out Saturday morning, I immediately said yes, inasmuch as the football game would be Friday night, at Mercy.

“We’re 0-6,” I said, “and so are they.”

“Really? I thought we’d won a couple.”

“That’s probably because of the way I’ve been writing things up. Losses become wins in my vernacular. You always want to look on the bright side,” I said, by way of explanation, before humming a few bars from the Monty Python song. 

Then he stuck the knife in. “What happened to the Steelers?!”

“A friend of mine is a Dolphins fan and he asked me over to watch the game,” I said. “I was so sure they’d win I told him I’d take a Xanax before I came — I didn’t want to annoy the hell out of him. Ultimately I didn’t go — a blessing in retrospect — and went to puppy kindergarten instead, which, in contrast to the game, was pure joy.”

Frankly, as a pick-me-up I know of nothing, nothing really, that can beat puppy kindergarten. They’re all so happy to see each other, having apparently absented themselves from felicity for a week. Unleash them and the party’s on — at play in ARF’s backyard.

I would recommend attendance to anyone, especially to anyone beset at times by depression. You will come away saying, like Florentino in “Love in the Time of Cholera,” keep on sailing.

Henry, I’d thought, would be our last dog, but, as my brother-in-law reminds from time to time, if you have love to give, give it.

“I’m the one being trained,” I said in the newsroom the other day when asked how O’en’s training was going. 

Trained to give my heart to someone else, which, for me, at least, isn’t easy. 

So I’m determined to do my best when it comes to that. It will be, I’m quite sure, my last chance.

We were going head to head the other day, in a wide-ranging discussion with some other longtime summer people turned almost-year-round, about never-ending construction on our streets and whose lost real estate opportunities and dumb decisions, over the years, were dumbest and lostest.

We’d all bought our houses in the ’60s or ’70s, years before the South Fork became the Hamptons, when you’d walk along Main Street pushing a stroller and shopkeepers, seeing an unfamiliar face, would come smiling out to introduce themselves. We agreed that compared to almost anything else, we could hardly have made a better investment.

But everyone had a story also about the land that got away, the vacant acre that could have been acquired years ago but was not — sold, last year or last month, for some preposterous figure, cleared of tall trees and underbrush where small furry creatures roamed, and built up to within an inch of the lot lines with monster houses lacking nothing but moats.

Big is nothing new here. The 19th-century “cottages” in East Hampton Village were built with eight or 10 bedrooms plus three for staff — only it’s now happening on parcels too small to contain it. I hear the East Hampton Town Board is thinking of imposing new standards that would limit a house’s size relative to the size of its lot; good luck with that. The town is far from alone, of course; the “too-much-money syndrome,” as Paul Goldberger calls it, is spreading nationwide, changing the look and character of beleaguered neighborhoods everywhere. Last week a resigned North Shore village official told Newsday that “this is the way people want to live these days” and suggested that his village’s code might be “behind the times.”

One of the first things I remember about the South Fork is big, ugly billboards, spaced out along the Napeague stretch almost as far as Hither Hills, advertising everything from motels to cigarettes and car dealerships. That was in 1966, when Sidney and I ventured out from the city to rent something for the summer in Amagansett, which, we’d heard, had broad, beautiful beaches that made up for its being more than four hours away from civilization.

Almost nobody we knew had ever heard of the place. A year later, when my proud father told someone that “my kids have bought a house in Amagansett,” the man looked at him quizzically.

“Why?” he asked.

“ ‘Why’? What do you mean, ‘why’?”

“Why are you against it?”

(Say “in Amagansett‚ in Amagansett” fast. Get it?)

The billboards were gone when we returned as new mortgagees the following spring, the town board having won a prolonged legal battle to enforce the anti-billboard provisions of the zoning ordinance it had enacted 10 years before. Gone, too, was the vacant acre next door, which had been offered to us for $5,000 soon after we bought the house. Five thousand dollars? No way!

Most everyone in the room that night had a similar story, some with happy endings (nice new neighbors), some not. (One woman asked the architect of the castle rising almost in her backyard whether they would be planting trees for screening. “Of course,” he answered. “They don’t want to see the dinky pool out there.”)

If the evening devolved into a contest of sorts — who’d lost the most money by sitting tight when they could’ve jumped — we won. Here’s why. Right before we were to sign the contract of sale, a friend called my husband with a tip on the stock market. Buy shares of something called Berkshire Hathaway, he advised. One share of the brand-new venture was a little over $19. 

No matter. We were about to spend $35,000 on a house, and that was pushing it. We passed.

By buying the house, which we love and still live in, instead of the stock, we gained 50 years of contentment, and lost, according to Berkshire’s current price, about $34.8 million.

Irene Silverman is The Star’s editor at large.

William Wordsworth’s words came crashing into my head as I tried without luck to think of something cheerful to write about yesterday.

The unexpected, accidental death of Janis Hewitt, the East Hampton Star’s longtime Montauk correspondent, threw a wrench into all our proceedings.

The world is too much with us; late and soon

Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers;          

Little we see in Nature that is ours;

We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!

Janis wrote for The Star for so many years that her work fills six thick manila folders in the backroom file cabinets, going back to at least 1996 and clipped from the newspaper by a part-time librarian before everything was digitized. She covered the gamut — news stories, features, and many, many personal columns under the “Relay” head. It was Janis’s 1996 front-page story that announced that Montauk residents had turned down a proposition to incorporate as a separate village by a 3-to-1 margin. A few years later, in 1999, she wrote about the “nightmare” of finding seasonal housing for the summer work force. The title was “Where to Put the Irish.” 

But it is likely that she will be remembered most for the humor she brought to the “Relay” spot, which is handed around among the staff. My guess is that there are more of them from Janis than anyone else past or present who works here.

The first Janis Hewitt “Relay” I found as I made a quick survey was published on March 14, 1996. In it, she said she had decided to spend her first winter in Montauk in 1973, and she went on to describe a Santa parade during which it snowed.

The deadline for this column has long passed, but I can think of nothing — or no one — else. Today’s Star has a story about the accident that claimed her life, but the full obituary her life will have to wait for another day. Suffice it to say that if Janis had decided to write her own obituary it would be full of humor.

You can find a number of Janis’s columns by going to The Star website and searching for Janis Hewitt Relay. 

“Enjoy the good part of global warming!” some­one in the morning crew at the coffee shop said this week.

The temperature outside was already in the low 70s, going up to nearly 80, David Falkowski said from his usual seat in Java Nation’s sole upholstered chair. But, he said, watch out for February, when the South Fork stands a fair chance of multiple heavy snowfalls of the sort that do not melt away before the next one hits.

Weather is not climate, long-term forecasters say. That means this week’s warm spell is not tied to global warming. David Falkowski’s hypothetical snowstorms are, however. Climate scientists predict that as the atmosphere warms, greater levels of moisture enter the air, leading to more precipitation, even though persistent snow cover in North America has decreased since the 1930s.

Like politics, global warming or climate change is not a subject I really want to talk about during my morning stop after dropping Ellis off for first grade and before I arrive at work at The Star. You never know if one of the regulars might turn out to be a climate-denier and your heretofore pleasant relations soured by the topic. Next thing you know it will be the Twin Towers conspiracy or Donald Trump, and you’ll have to get your coffee to go.

One of the telling comments about climate change that has stuck with me came from Scott Mandia, a researcher at Stony Brook University who described the effect of sea level rise on the inundation damage from coastal storms. With rising waters, storms ride in that much higher and even the little ones do considerable damage.

Think of the water like a basketball floor, he told me — pretty soon guys like me will be able to dunk.

Maybe one of these mornings I will share this with the Java Nation crew — when I have a good hour to kill to see where the conversation goes from there.

Dear Hillary,

Well, we did it! 

Frankly, I didn’t know how I could top the “locker room” comments I’d leaked. When would people ever get it, I wondered; I had reviled everyone and everything, and still they believed! I could say anything!

As you know, I never was interested in the presidency from Day 1. When it’s come to social issues, I’ve always been pretty much of a liberal and a conservative when it comes to fiscal and foreign policy. But the logjam in Washington was eating at me, a man of action, a fighter, as you are. We’re bedfellows! Now don’t go taking this the wrong way. 

The Republican Party was really all but dead when I stuck a fork in it. It had no agenda, it was ossified, there were no new ideas. All it could do was say no. Not that the Democrats were much better, but the Republicans were worse. So, I figured I’d stage a coup — which I did in the primaries, further testimony to my genius — and at least give someone a chance to make this country great again. 

The outlandish things I said in playing to my seething base! And the things I did, including telling my accountant to swear to The Times that the phony tax sheets I’d leaked were legit. What? This guy’s paid no income tax in 20 years! What a piker! But no, everyone wanted to be like me! Can you imagine what that would do — there’d be no country then. That was playing with fire.

And so, Hillary, congratulations! Sorry I called you the devil and said you should be jailed. Just words, dear, just words. You’re a fighter, I admire you for that, I really do. And thanks for saying my kids turned out all right. 

Despite me or because of me? I wasn’t quite sure. But anyway a big fat check for your foundation is in the mail from this ol’ fat checker. Enjoy. 

I think I’d look nice in long black robes

The Donald

What woman out there hasn’t had to fend off unwanted advances from a boss, a host, a guest, a guy you just met, or a guy you know well? 

And did you know — of course you did — that if you did anything to stop him, he would shame you as “overreacting,” say “this bitch is nuts,” fire you, or give you a bad reference or a bad reputation? 

That masher owns your reputation and he knows it. In fact, he owns the future of your relationships, your career path, and your reaction to food. He can control your self-esteem. This pisses me off.

Ask yourself, as a single woman at a party, who actually sticks up for you if you put a fork in the hand of the guy with his hand in your lap or pour hot coffee on the guy who goosed you? Nobody, and you know it before you even start looking for the fork. You know it is the troublesome woman who tends to get in trouble, not the guy. The guy gets high fives for copping a feel; the girl goes to the bathroom to throw up. The woman’s voice is so often muted by the power. 

The waitress complains, she is fired; the whistleblower is transferred, and the “locker room guy” is enabled again and again.

He gets to walk into the dressing room at a beauty pageant, gets to cop a feel in a crowded elevator, French kiss you while he shakes your hand, and gets to talk dirty on the radio while everyone says, “Boys will be boys.”

The other night I was reminded of a moment in my past. I was the date of a fellow on whom I had a crush. He worked for Rolling Stone magazine, and I was invited to a function. Maybe Magazine Publishers Association dinner, who knows? I remember what I wore because I bought it especially for that night. Expensive, Calvin Klein, silk. I wanted to make a good impression. I would be meeting the other executives, wives, and significant others. We would be at the good table, I was told.

At the huge round table the crush sat on my left and another male executive on my right. (Everyone at Rolling Stone was young, so all these folks with big jobs were my age.) The guy to my right had his hand in my lap before the salad was served. At first I thought it was a napkin issue and I brushed him aside, but he was back immediately, under the tablecloth.

This was 1979. I was new to this little tribe. Eager to have this crush turn into something, I just pushed the hand away, again and again and again, more times than I can count, all the while squirming in my seat to get far from him without making a scene. (What went through my mind in a flash: Good girls are polite. Maybe it’s a mistake. Do not make a fuss. Don’t embarrass your date.) The crush was no help. He was annoyed by my fidgeting and general withdrawal from conversation. When I whispered what was happening, he whispered, “Just push him away,” and did nothing to keep the hand guy away from me. 

The feeler kept it up through the entree and dessert, up the side slit in the skirt and above. I kept pushing and glaring. Eventually, I fled to the ladies room, which kind of broke the spell. When I came back, he had begun to bother the woman on his right. Or perhaps his hand was occupied in his own lap; I failed to notice.

Looking back, I was protecting my reputation (34, in the magazine business myself, hoping for a future with the crush), but amazingly I was protecting my crush from a guy he thought had power over him. I clearly put his situation equal to or higher than my own. 

I carefully avoided the masher for the next year or so. It turned out he was famous for this misbehavior. After the crush and I parted ways, and the masher stayed on the masthead at Rolling Stone, I ran into a number of women with similar stories to tell. Gender war stories. That might what be what gets talked about in the women’s “locker rooms” — who to avoid and why.

Why did he get away with it for all those years? Because he had the power to fire, shame, demote, and degrade. Sound familiar? He took advantage of the weak and weakened the strong. His behavior, even now, makes me deeply sorry that I did not muster the courage to stick the fork in the back of his hand, or turn over a glass of wine in his lap. 

Today, in October 2016, I am running that little bit of memory in my mind over and over and over. Would have, should have, could have. Not the worst thing that ever happened in the world, and I have been lucky in my life not to have worse stories to tell, but I still wish I had literally stood up for myself, and spilled something on him in the process. I do not blame the Calvin Klein dress with the slit, but I never did wear it again. 

Who among us hasn’t felt helpless, embarrassed, angry, and crushed that a fella got “over on us,” felt vaguely that it was the fault of our dress, our behavior, or the wine, the music, the job, the ambition, the weakness, the trust, whatever, that we should have been more something or less something. Anything that wasn’t the way that we were at that moment. 

Watching TV now reminds me that most young women who make a fuss still get nowhere. We knew it then, we know it now. I wish I could say things will change. I know how I will vote with that hope in mind.

Durell Godfrey is a contributing photographer to The Star. 

Calling myself a country mouse may sound disingenuous, but the truth is that my knowledge of cinema comes almost entirely from visits to the local Regal and Sag Harbor Cinemas — and at most times of the year I only rarely go to the movies, waiting to hear of a film that is really good.

But I have been a fan of the Hamptons International Film Festival from its beginning 24 years ago, and the movies I have seen there have expanded my horizons in quite amazing ways. Over the years, the festival has offered opportunities to see documentaries, in particular, that otherwise I would not even have known about and that have opened my eyes in wonderful ways, bringing the world closer.

Two documentaries I saw this time around were truly stunning.

One, “The Eagle Huntress,” is about an extraordinary 13-year-old girl in Mongolia who trains an eagle to hunt and by doing so defies a centuries-old male tradition. Seeing her in action was an uplifting experience, and I recommend the film’s trailer, on YouTube, to anyone interested — and their children. That the cameras were rolling in frigid weather and deep snow to record the events live astonished me. “The Eagle Huntress” won the festival’s best-documentary prize, and I’m told that it is one of the lucky films that is likely to be released in theaters, so you and your family may have a chance to see it, too. Do go.

But while “The Eagle Huntress” is an uplifting film, the other I called stunning was darker and distressing. “Disturbing the Peace” follows a handful of Palestinian fighters as well as Israeli soldiers who have grown disillusioned by the killings they participated in or witnessed. They tempted fate to meet, overcame their hostilities, and established Combatants for Peace 10 years ago and are still trying to spread the word of nonviolence.

Who could fail to be impressed by such peace activists as Suliman al-Khatib, who attacked two Israelis when he was 14 and spent a decade in prison; or Chen Alon Chen, who was in the Israeli Army for 4 years and 10 more in the reserves and then became a “refusnik,” signing a letter to renounce his service in the Occupied Territories; or Mohammed Owedah Mohammed, who also went to prison for being a violent participant in anti-occupation activities; or Avner Wishnitzer, who was born on a kibbutz, fought with an elite Israeli Army unit, and became a refusnik. . . ?

The documentary “Combatants for Peace” also features a woman who survived a suicide bombing mission. We see her, through re-enactment, as a young mother saying goodbye to her daughter. She is a powerful advocate for peace, although she could not be present.

Four of the film’s protagonists, however, were here in East Hampton and took part in a panel that followed the first screening. They have been making the rounds, hoping to encourage the peace movement. As the news from that part of the world continues its downward trajectory, one can only wish them godspeed.

For those who surf, like me, there should be a moment when we realize that waves like those generated by distant hurricanes which are so pleasurable to us meant death and property loss to others. The paradox should come with a sense of obligation.

Hurricane Matthew’s devastation of Haiti, as well as some parts of this country and the Caribbean, is an example. Aid organizations fear that the long aftermath of the storm will add to the toll. It seems to me that surfers in particular should be willing to do what they can to help.

The hurricane’s wind damage was catastrophic in Haiti. Houses, crops, access to safe drinking water were destroyed. Fishing boats are gone. Food production may be upended for years. The United Nations estimated that 1.4 million people are in immediate need of help. Hospitals and clinics are in ruins. Medical supplies are scarce. And even worse may lie ahead, as a new cholera epidemic is expected. For Haiti, the poorest nation in the region, there is little immediate hope.

East Hampton is far from Haiti. We do not have a large number of Haitians living here — though there are some. And Hurricane Matthew did not create the wave bonanza for surfers of other storms. Yet, those of us who love the ocean and try to organize our lives around its rhythms cannot just sit by.

Thinking as I sat on my board the other day in Montauk, it occurred to me that surfers ought to link their personal joy to helping relieve suffering and that they might do this by donating in proportion to the number of waves they catch, maybe $1 a ride, maybe $10 a ride. I started keeping a rough count.

Where to send the money is a question. The Urban Zen Foundation, founded by Donna Karan, who has a store in Sag Harbor and a house in East Hampton, is accepting donations and has chosen to support several groups. Among them are Project Medishare, which supports Haitian doctors, nurses, and clinics directly, and Prodev, a Haitian organization focusing on schools, children, and the need for immediate supplies. Doctors Without Borders operates four hospitals in Haiti and is an extraordinary organization to which I have donated in the past.

This month has been one of spectacularly great surf here. Those of us for whom the waves mean almost everything should think about making good on the deal and giving something to those suffering today.

The last best hope for America, I’ve always thought, lay with the Kennedys, whose spirit was of the sort that would get us working with each other and for each other, but that was a long time ago, and, yes, in a different country. 

Now those stirring words have been turned on their head: “Ask not what you can do for your country, but what your country can do for you.”

And it appears that in Donald Trump’s case, it did a lot. He came hat in hand to the capitalist welfare state, which gave him a pass at the expense of others, for almost 20 years it’s been estimated. This is the champion of the common man? This is the guy who’s going to make things right again, who’s going to make America great again? If you believe that, I’ve got a basket of deplorables to sell you, and at a great price too, the best deplorables you’ll find anywhere, exceptional deplorables. Fresh-picked. Born yesterday in fact. Believe me, you’re going to love them.

O’en will have none of it. I’ve got a bone to pick with him, he told me. It’s not the way things are supposed to be in this country. Playing around, as we do in puppy kindergarten, is one thing, but, unlike Trump, we don’t take delight in being the humper-in-chief. We take turns at being humpers and humpees. It’s all very democratic, and quite fun, but I doubt he’ll ever get it. Clearly, he doesn’t like to share. There is no give and take with him, it’s all take. 

And now, after effectively taking us to the cleaners, paying not a scent, he asks why he wasn’t curbed, says that he wants to clean things up now so that people like him won’t be able to get away with what he got away with. Yet his tax plan eschews that loophole! I just don’t trust him, and I’m a pretty trusting sort, if treated fairly.

In sum, O’en told me that contrary to what most people said, he rather liked the idea of this country going to the dogs; that they, perhaps, in their free interweaving, more closely embodied the ideals of our founding fathers than greedy humans — so-called dog in the manger types — who were ever intent on amassing more and more toys.

And remember, he said, with an engaging smile, it’s O’en for all and all for O’en.

As has been previously established in the pages of this newspaper, I am a nerd. But I have mostly considered myself an extroverted kind of nerd who never really had a problem making friends, whether in elementary school, summer camp, high school, or college (junior high, of course, being the exception, but let’s not talk about that).

That’s why I was wholly unprepared for the difficulty I would eventually have making friends as an adult.

It is a trend that has been well documented by researchers and journalists. In April, while sharing commentary on a series of “friend dates” she had been going on, Elizabeth Bernstein, a Wall Street Journal columnist, cited a handful of studies and experts who had come to several conclusions. Among them: Adults lose friends when they become romantically involved with another person; adults have less time to invest in growing friendships, and life events such as marriages, divorces, and college graduations nfluence the shift of relationships. 

“A body of research shows that people with solid friendships live healthier, longer lives,” Ms. Bernstein wrote. “Friendship decreases blood pressure and stress, reduces the risk of depression and increases longevity, in large part because someone is watching out for us.”

I watched for many years as my father, a jovial kind of guy, made friends with ease. He was the unofficial Mayor of Everywhere We Went. He had the gift of good conversation and could chat folks up in almost any situation. Oftentimes it led not just to new clients for his contracting business but to new friends who later helped out in hard times.

I might look like my dad, but I don’t talk like he could. And for me, moving around a lot — seven times in the last six years — seriously impacted my ability to make and keep friends. Take, for example, my most recent move, to the South Fork.

When I came here in the spring of 2015, I had exactly one close friend east of the Shinnecock Canal. I was grateful for her friendship then, as I am now. But you can only ask your one friend to hang out so much before you start to be a pest or come off as clingy, and so there were a lot of subsequent dinners for one and solo evenings at the movies. I spent a lot of time and gasoline driving UpIsland, where the rest of my friends and my family were living — which then made it even harder to make friends here.

It got to the point where I seriously considered starting a simple social networking website, which I would have called Hamptons Friends or something like that, which would have been some sort of localized cross-pollination of Craigslist and Meetup.com. I checked the availability of that internet domain name once or twice — at the time, it had not been taken by anyone — but realistically, the thought of having to build and then moderate such a site seemed monstrous. It would have eaten up all the time I had available to spend socializing. Too counterintuitive. I decided I’d have to make friends the analog way.

Eventually, after I had lived here about a year, an out-of-state friend who knew of my predicament messaged me on Facebook. As it turned out, she had a friend who lived in Southampton, and she set the two of us up for a friend date at Wolffer Estate. We hit it off almost instantaneously, and have seen each other pretty often since then.

A couple of weeks ago, in casual conversation with the folks who run the John Jermain Memorial Library, the subject turned to the library’s monthly board-game night for adults. This was a no-brainer. When the time came, I piled my games into my car and headed up to Sag Harbor. As soon as the other gamers filed into the room, and we realized we shared some favorite games in common, I knew instantly that I had found where I fit in. Perhaps nerds will eventually find each other.

But even without my realizing it, over the past year and a half, the seeds of friendship had slowly been planted nearly everywhere I went: While on the job. While living in rented rooms in houses here. While taking classes at the gym or dance studio for fun. Even while waiting in line for food at La Fondita.

It’s autumn now, but those seeds have finally grown and blossomed, and it’s a really, really good feeling.

Christine Sampson covers education for The East Hampton Star.