Two young women, Mormons as I learned, appeared at our door one late afternoon recently, and they were very pleasant even though I confessed I was no longer a churchgoer, which, of course, did not mean, I said, that I did not have a spiritual side.

What were we here for if not to help one another, I said, adding that, for me at least, the rest remained a mystery, though I did tend to side with my wife’s pantheism. 

(The inner wise guy suggested I tell them that cleanliness was next only to godlessness in the Hamptons, but I held my tongue.)

And did they know, by the way, that Joseph Campbell (with whom they were not familiar) had discovered that the myths in which many of us still believe, including the one about a divine mother and a resurrected son, were not only shared by all civilizations, but dated back thousands of years, long before Christ? 

They gave me a book outlining God’s plan for me and their card. I thanked them. The neighborhood, I said, was about half year round, half summer. We shook hands, said goodbye, and they walked away, to knock at another door, and I went back to wondering what it was all about, before remembering that I should shuck the corn for dinner.

What was it the Zen monk said? “Miraculous power and marvelous activity — drawing water and hewing wood!” 

Or shucking corn. 

It is one of summer’s gifts, a gift of Demeter, goddess of the cornfield, who would have forbidden it and the fruit and herbs to grow had not Zeus agreed to let her daughter, Per­sephone, spend nine months of the year with her on earth and three in the company of her abductor, Hades. 

All in all a good deal, you’ll agree, so let’s shuck it while we can. 

What makes you choose chicken noodle soup rather than gazpacho when they appear next to each other at your favorite takeout shop? Is it mood or weather? One is the quintessential comfort food, the other somehow jaunty and zingy, bringing to mind an artists’ lunch under an arbor in Andalusia. Both soups were on a refrigerator shelf at Breadzilla earlier this week, which may have indicated either that the cooks, arriving in the kitchen that morning, decided to hedge their bets on the weather, or that they might share the ambivalence some of us feel about September. 

The crowds and the mayhem are gone, at least on weekdays. We’re all walking around congratulating one another on having survived the invasion of the August People. Sunny September afternoons are perfect for all those things you couldn’t find time to do during the summer, like browsing through the Bargain Box or dead-heading the last of the roses. An added bonus are cooler nights, good for sleeping. On the other hand, September is the start of the hurricane season, as evidenced by Hermine just last week. This month can either feel like the end of something (fleeting summers, and winter drawing near) or like a new beginning (that start-of-the-school-year mood that lasts many decades after our own schooldays are over).

On the morning I chose chicken noodle soup over gazpacho — casting a vote for autumn, as it were — Hillary Clinton was resting at home, having been felled by pneumonia. It’s entirely possible that I went for the chicken soup subconsciously, as I was feeling rather sorry for her and afraid that a common illness like pneumonia could set back her campaign and wind up having a negative effect on her chances of winning the presidency. Hillary could use some soup. She seems like a soup person. 

Donald Trump’s favorite foods, I read, are Filet-o-Fish sandwiches from McDonald’s and Diet Coke. I’ll leave you to ponder that a moment.

Later in the week I went to the Iacono Farm on Long Lane to buy some chicken and found myself telling Eileen Iacono that my grandmother, who was from the old country, alarmed me as a child when I saw her throw chicken feet into the soup pot, claws and all. She told me they were needed to thicken the broth and said I shouldn’t worry because they had been scrubbed. I checked this information out with Mrs. Iacono, who must surely be a chicken-soup expert, and she nodded in affirmation. 

I can’t think of any other food with as meritorious a reputation as chicken soup. Science says it’s not just good for the soul, it can help you heal from a head cold. 

Still thinking about Mrs. Clinton and her need for a hot bowl of chicken soup, I went looking for the origin of the phrase “a chicken in every pot,” which I understood was political. The phrase sometimes has been attributed to Herbert Hoover, the 31st president of the United States, who took office in 1929 just as the Depression got under way. Although government policies that preceded him contributed to the crash, Hoover was blamed for the nation’s suffering and roundly defeated by Franklin Roosevelt four years later.

 A “Vote for Hoover” advertisement for his re-election described his administration as having “restored financial confidence and enthusiasm, changed credit from a rich man’s privilege to a common utility. . . .” It also claimed “Republican prosperity has . . . silenced discontent, put the proverbial ‘chicken in every pot,’ and a car in every backyard, to boot.” What shall we do if Trump is elected, and the stock markets — as predicted — take a hasty dive? A Filet-o-Fish on every fork?

Standing on the ocean beach in Montauk with East Hampton Town Supervisor Larry Cant­well on Tuesday, the question was why the downtown waterfront strip is the way it is. High waves from Hermine, a post-tropical cyclone by the time it passed Long Island last week, had eaten away almost all the fill that a United States Army Corps of Engineers contractor had placed there in the spring. As we looked over the damage, Larry pointed out that the sand level was more or less back where it had been when the corps project began.

The idea behind the $9.8 million undertaking was to bolster the shoreline for a time in the hope that the Army Corps would return some day with a more permanent solution. Now, it seems that is not going to happen. The corps has said it will commit only to putting more sand on the beach every four years. This is, of course, demonstrably idiotic — the work its contractor finished just in June is already beginning to fail.

But the failures go back much further than the Army Corps, in fact, to the earliest days of Montauk’s development. In the 1920s, Carl Fisher had grand plans for a “distinguished summer colony on the slender tip of Long Island.” Plans called for a boardwalk the length of the downtown, but even Fisher and his big dreams showed a bit of sense where the shore was concerned. 

An artist’s rendering of what was to come had little in the way of buildings along the ocean beach itself and most of the substantial structures well inland. This restraint may have stemmed from personal experience. Fisher’s properties in Florida took heavy damage from a hurricane in 1926, a storm that was credited with ending a real estate boom that had been running for several years. On the other hand, since it was believed at the time that devastating hurricanes did not reach Long Island, Fisher might have thought Montauk development was a safer bet.

Financial troubles ended Fisher’s plans here, and the stock market crash and Great Depression more or less froze Montauk in time. Then the 1938 Hurricane rolled across Long Island on Sept. 21 of that year, as if to emphasize that development on the shore made no sense. The lesson was forgotten a generation later.

By the early 1960s, building returned to the oceanfront in Montauk and along the length of Long Island. People forgot the obvious: that erosion was inevitable. Local and state government stood by as scores of houses, motels, and other buildings were placed exactly where they should not have been. This is evident when you stand on the Montauk beach today.

The question, going forward, is whether anyone from Washington to Town Hall has the ability to guide us to a sensible step back. Managed retreat, they call it, but so far, those are just words.

The phone rang and, seeing it was my daughter, I answered it. Why, she wondered, was I not already at the Hampton Classic?

I was going, I was going, I said — not with unbridled enthusiasm though — in a little bit. And were we prepared for the storm, she asked. Of course we weren’t prepared, I answered. 

Well, if it turned out that we needed anything, we should not hesitate to call. I told her we would, marveling at the ease with which round-the-clock weather channels can induce widespread panic.

I’ve lived here for practically half a century, and there’s only been one time when we’ve been without power for more than a day or two, and that was because the Long Island Power Authority’s map of our neighborhood hadn’t been updated in a generation, which, because they thought it was sparsely populated, and with mostly summer homes, landed us at the bottom of the list, until Bill Leland set them straight. 

Yes, yes, I know, someday, someday. . . . It was the same with Mary’s mother. For years, she predicted the market would crash, and, after years and years, it did, and she could at long last say I told you so. 

Gloom and doom will eventually get you somewhere. Sell, sell! Evacuate, evacuate!

Are we like sheep? Sheep passing in the night? Sheep pissing in the night? But then if there are no lights, there is the lawn. Lights are a boon, yes, but, as I said to Mary’s sister, Georgie, the other night, with a certain bravado, “There are two things I can’t live without — women and paper towels.”

I expected she might reply in kind, though, skipping men, she acknowledged that paper towels were indeed a necessity.

At any rate, I finally ambled over to the Classic. And, lo, to my surprise, found on arriving that they’d started the Grand Prix an hour early! The rumored storm had prompted the change. I, clueless, as ever, hadn’t gotten the emailed word. 

But I had only missed the first rider, the weather was beautiful, and the class was over in record time — in well under two hours. It was with a light step then that, soon after, with my head filled with just the right number of facts, I left the showgrounds, eager to celebrate with Mary the end of summer. 

Sometimes it pays not to know before you go. Jack Graves

I have always been able to draw. Not Michelangelo, Leonardo da Vinci draw, but I have always had the knack to make a thing look like the thing it is supposed to be. 

As a grammar school student, faced with high school, my parents encouraged me to apply to the High School of Music and Art. Uh-oh, a portfolio was needed for that. 

Now, I could draw, but I was never the easel painter artist who followed a muse and just had to create. I was always the fulfill-the-assignment kind of drawer. So, for the portfolio I had to make as a seventh grader I listened to my mother (who acted as my art director) when she suggested I look at the spots in The New Yorker and try to do some stuff like that. (Note to The New Yorker: Thanks.)  And then she said, “Just look around and draw what you see — a shelf of stuffed animals or a pile of shoes.”

She reminded me it was not so much the subject as how the subject was drawn.

That summer I developed an eye for clutter (seventh graders are really good making clutter), and I developed what later was called “a tight hand.” In short, that means a confident pen line without the sketchy wobbly bits, a pen or pencil line that could draw the contour of a chair or even a face without needing or wanting to stop. I got into Music and Art, and I continued to learn how to look. 

As for drawing, I got a few “art jobs” after college, all really in part because I could draw small and tight. An employment agent was the one who told me I had a tight hand, and she sent me to a job designing custom rugs. There I needed to be able to draw and then paint a very realistic rose three-eighths of an inch across. (Take a ruler and look at it and try it. It ain’t easy.)

Tiny roses and shaded acanthus leaves were added to my skill set. Meanwhile, as gifts for my parents’ friends in Orient, in the summer I would continue to draw people’s houses. Many of the large houses you see on the hill as you drive on the causeway toward Orient were rendered by me in pen and ink during those summers.

One of the best jobs I ever had was for an art materials company. I was doing graphic design for them but part of my job was, amazingly, to draw whatever I wanted, Photostat the drawings, color them in using the product (Bourges paper), and give the samples to sales reps to use on the road. Perfect, no? 

Finally I landed a job at Glamour magazine doing promotional graphic design. My portfolio of drawings got the attention of editorial art department, and (freelance) I became the illustrator used by Glamour for the whole of the 1970s. Eventually, I could draw how to bone a chicken, roll out a pie dough, how to short-sheet a bed, rewire a lamp, and how to put your hair up in pin curls. I had to draw exercises from Polaroid photographs and figure out how to illustrate trimming your own bangs. 

I invented a few characters who could not cope with the “sticky situation” of the month, and my drawings even got fan mail. Thanks to a collaboration with that art director, Michelle Braverman, I was the illustrator for the “How to Do Anything Better” guide and I got to draw stuff for money.  

In the 1980s that knack for what my father called “expository drawings” led to some cookbook illustrations for the author Maria Robbins of Springs, whom I had met through my husband. 

Her cookbooks led to other cookbooks and when Maria’s editor moved on and changed jobs I managed to stay in her phone directories. 

Every few years some crazy pregnant exercise book or “bread machine cookbook” or book on how to help your special needs child integrate learning with fun would need illustrations and I would get a call from that very loyal editor. Then I would haul out the very same pens I had used in college and at Glamour (Rapidograph 00 point, India ink) and do the assignment. They were always fun and I always learned how to draw something new.

Full time in East Hampton for many years now, I still practice “seeing” in my capacity as contributor to The Star and I still draw stuff. 

Fast-forward to March 2015, with many, many little books under my belt and a good relationship with my very loyal book editor. (Thank you, Maria, for the path to Marian Lizzi of Penguin Random House.) On that day in March, my friend Mo Cohen at the Ladies Village Improvement Society, where I volunteer, pointed out an article in The New York Times business section about a Scottish lady who was making a name for herself drawing coloring books for grown-ups. 

“Mo,” I said, “I can do that. I can do a coloring book, I can do that!” (Thank you, Mo. I might have missed that article had it not been for you.) 

I went home and emailed Marian Lizzi. “I can make a coloring book for you,” I wrote. 

She wanted to see samples and I sent some of the cluttered interiors I had always drawn. The next day came this message: “Can you give us 60 in a month?” 

I could, and I did, and the clutter of my life became a coloring book.

Eight months later there are people in Indonesia and Malaysia and Russia and Brazil coloring my drawn pages. Some share the colorations with me, and their work makes me so proud that my work is out there for them. A lady wrote to me to say coloring helps with the pain of her fibromyalgia. 

The ripple effect of ink on paper is quite remarkable. The pen is truly mightier than the sword.

Durell Godfrey is a contributing photographer and illustrator for The Star and the newspaper’s East magazine. Her coloring book, “Color Me Cluttered,” was published in 2015. 

I had been saying that I was going to Nova Scotia, but that turned out to be one of those typically American mistakes about Canadian geography that so horrify our neighbors to the north: Prince Edward Island, which we visited last week, sits above Nova Scotia and is a province of its own. 

Everyone refers to the island as P.E.I., and I did, too, despite my aversion to cutesy short takes, acronyms, and the like. We had been told Prince Edward Island is like the South Fork of 40 or 50 years ago, but based on a week’s evidence I disagree. P.E.I. is another country not only because — as in all of Canada — its signage and governance are bilingual, with written French and English everywhere, but because the people seem to share a disarming temperament. They’re easy-going, warm, and engagingly friendly!

Of course, I did find myself making comparisons. Like the East End, Prince Edward Island has a three-month resort season (although it’s now true that ours stretches to May and September), and many businesses there that cater to tourists close up, as many of ours do, after Labor Day. Also, we’re both into potatoes. Some 88,000 acres in P.E.I. are planted in spuds, I was told, providing one-quarter of all those grown in Canada. I told anyone who evinced even mild curiosity that eastern Long Island was once known for its potatoes, too, but that our fields these days mostly sprout McMansions. P.E.I. also grows wheat, barley, and canola. Lobster remains a common denominator; the P.E.I. lobster is a bit smaller, on average, than those that are still harvested by the boatload in the Gulf of Maine. And we feasted on mussels and Malpeque oysters.

In much of Canada, especially the west and north, aboriginal people are a powerful presence, but on P.E.I., as on Long Island, aboriginals’ presence isn’t very evident to visitors — in our case, the Montauketts, in theirs, the Mi’kmaq. Tourists on P.E.I. tend to be from Ontario or Nova Scotia, or from Japan, of all places. What draws droves in tour buses all the way from Tokyo? The timeless appeal of the “Anne of Green Gables” books, which schoolgirls everywhere clearly still adore.

Then there are the Acadians. As a child I learned about their plight in the 18th century from Longfellow’s “Evangeline,” but I didn’t know that others, who sought safety in the Canadian Maritimes, suffered expulsion and tragedy, too. We visited P.E.I.’s Acadian museum, on the west end of the province, which described what befell them, as well as their eventual return. Today, those of Acadian descent savor their own culture and support public schools where French is the first language.

As for the landscape, it is similar to what ours used to be — in that the classic P.E.I. vista is an open stretch of potato fields ending in beach-grass-covered dunes and ocean waves — but there are many very distinct differences: For starters, their soil is red (really red! there’s even a folk song about red dirt, and shops selling “dirt shirts” dyed with soil). Much of the province unfolds in gorgeous rolling hills dotted with cattle; we watched combines as they mowed hay, leaving behind picturesque rows of big, round hay rolls instead of haystacks. We visited a goat farm, and a mill making wool blankets. Ocean dunes and empty beaches stretch for uninterrupted miles on the north coast.

In addition to Acadian culture,  a musical throwback to the Scots and Irish who settled in P.E.I. certainly makes it very different from eastern Long Island. A ceilidh (pronounced KAY-lee) is basically what the Nova Scotians call a “kitchen party”: a good-humored musical evening. Ceilidhs are popular tourist attractions, and they seemed to occur every night in small community halls rather than pubs. 

The one we attended was led by a talented musician on accordion, piano, and guitar, and an Irish jokester and storyteller on harmonica and accordion. The audience sang as directed and clapped and stamped its feet with gusto. Two young women showed off their step-dancing prowess. A 50-50 raffle was introduced with a song and explanation that the money went to the women’s institute that ran the hall. A man from Ottawa won $90 Canadian.

Another surprising difference between P.E.I. and home is that the surf there, arriving on the beaches over multiple sandbars — and, coming down from the north over the Gulf of St. Lawrence without as broad a fetch — is too low and mild to attract surfers, who don’t seem to exist. Despite the warmth of the water, we saw none (and hardly any evidence of yoga chic).

Then there is Charlottetown, the capital — a town, really, rather than a city — which boasts old  buildings that have not been torn down, three bookstores, a used-comic-book store, and a candy store called Freak Lunchbox, which sells every imaginable sweet, from the familiar to the intentionally disgusting (to the delight of my grandchildren, and the disgust of grandma). Of course, there was also an “Anne of Green Gables” store and “Anne of Green Gables” chocolate shop on Queen Street, the main commercial thoroughfare.

At The Star, I have tended to disparage travelogues readers sometimes send us for publication, thinking I’d rather pay attention to the opinions of someone who isn’t “from away,” a term that is still used in P.E.I., as it still is, in some circles, here. Still, I really want to tell you about my trip to Prince Edward Island . . . and I will try to bite my tongue next time I scoff.  

Shorebirds, sanderlings, probably, dashed ahead of the uprushing water at Wiborg’s Beach on Monday evening as storm waves broke all the way out to the horizon. Hermine, which started as a tropical depression in the Florida Straits about a week earlier, had crossed into the Atlantic and by then had drifted to within 200 miles of Long Island. 

Forecasters at the National Hurricane Center began paying close attention to the system on Aug. 28, first calling it tropical depression nine. By last Thursday it had strengthened to a tropical storm and was threatening the Gulf Coast of Florida. Hermine eventually made landfall near St. Marks, Fla., with winds of about 80 miles an hour.

On Saturday, after Hermine’s winds had declined, it popped out on the Atlantic side, regaining some strength and starting a halting course more or less northward into our area. By the beginning of the week, the forecasters were calling Hermine a post-tropical cyclone, meaning that it was no longer behaving like a tropical storm and was not nearly a hurricane. Its effects began to be really felt here on Labor Day, with fast moving clouds, light rain, and a riled-up ocean.

Although much of the weekend crowd had left early because of news reports and an evacuation order issued in error by the county, there were plenty of people on the beach, watching the spectacle and taking pictures with their phones. 

The sanderlings seemed nonchalant, racing in on their fast little feet to probe in the sand as a wave receded, then taking wing and flying quickly back up the beach when an other wave approached. Their quick reactions probably explain why they appear indifferent to us on the beach.

Shorebirds are a tough lot. There’s one that I sometimes see on the rock jetties at Georgica taking waves on the head as it picks around the seaweed for something to eat. With all the invertebrates to be had, a dunking is well worth it, in an evolutionary sense.

The sanderlings were at it again when I checked the beach the next morning. We might head to the shore to look in awe at the power of it all; for the birds it is an abundant free meal.

“This is the day the Lord hath made / rejoice and be glad in it,” I said to Mary as we and the puppy, whose first outing to Louse Point it was, took turns remarking on the glorious, cloud-filled sky, the light-green marsh grass, the gentle shore, the dark water, and the darker treeline beyond.

The light was clear, making everything stand out so singularly. It was the best day of the summer.

I made as if to frame it with my hand, remarking that one couldn’t do it justice, that it was best to let it remain in our minds’ eyes. 

“Ralph Carpentier could do it justice,” she said.

We reminded ourselves to go see his paintings at the Marine Museum. 

Jimmy Reutershan, Ev Rattray, Stuart Vorpahl, Ralph Carpentier, Rusty Drumm . . . all of them of this place, and who, while gone, remain in our minds’ eyes.

We agreed, yet again, how lucky we were. With surroundings like this, how could you not feel blessed? With surroundings like this, how could you cling to dark thoughts? How could you not let them glide by on the breeze?

And so, not all that far from the intemperate traffic and the strolling legions of leisure, you find yourself exclaiming in your backyard: Look at this! A miniature version of a bathtub toy, as Jane was to say later, bright orange, several inches long, with big spots on its back and a relatively large head with big black dots — eyes, we presumed. 

Mary put a photo of this comical being on Facebook, and, almost instantaneously, one of her friends identified it as the caterpillar form of a spicebush swallowtail butterfly, which mostly are found, they say, on the Florida peninsula.

How lucky we were. And in our backyard too, not all that far from the madding traffic and the strolling legions of leisure. I could only compare the sighting to the love-making slugs on our chimney of yesteryear.

And not long after that I saw a hummingbird — just for a moment, but enough to know it was so. I ran to tell Mary the news.

The slugs taught us about love, our cat how to die, and all the beings with whom we share this place are teaching us how to live.

I came home from work two Tuesdays ago to find my 8-year-old daughter wearing a fancy summer dress, with her hair brushed nicely after a day at camp. “I’m ready to meet Hillary,” she announced.

When I told her that I did not think that would happen, she crumpled. “Why not? You said she’s here. You said we might see her.” 

Ever since learning that Hillary Clinton would be visiting East Hampton, Jade had been hoping she would have a chance to meet her. It’s my fault for mentioning that it was a slim possibility. I mismanaged her expectations. A failure of Parenting 101. 

It’s a curious thing, her fascination with Hillary. She’s the only famous person, aside from Elsa from “Frozen,” whom Jade has ever wanted to meet face to face. 

On Primary Day, she told me, “Mom, you have to vote for Hillary. We need to have a girl president!” 

“Woman,” I reminded her, but it floored me, first that she had any idea what was happening in national politics, and then that she had such a strong opinion of who should get my vote and why. A simple reason, and a lot of people would say that’s not enough, but clearly the significance of this election for women is not lost on little girls. 

Trump, she says, “is too bossy.” 

I’ve heard kids the same age as Jade chatting on the beach about Donald Trump and Hillary Clinton and which one they thought stood a better chance of winning and for what reasons. 

My son, who’s 6, refers to the whole thing as “the Lady and the Trump.” 

Pundits and pollsters would do well to listen to what children are saying. It’s hard to kid a kid. 

I’ve never met Donald Trump, but had the chance to meet Hillary as a much younger reporter. And like many who live in East Hampton, I’ve seen her from afar here a number of times. I know someone who’s related to someone who’s a close friend and someone else who’s a friend of a friend, and so on and so on. In Jade’s mind, it stood to reason that a meeting was assured. 

When I was not that much older than she is and obsessed with all things Beatles, I would beg my parents to drive me by the Eastman estate, hoping I might see Paul McCartney just going out or just returning. Where I got my intel, I cannot be sure; we had just moved to East Hampton and knew only a handful of people. There were tall hedges surrounding most of the property, but as I recall there were some gaps by the tennis court, so when we drove by for the second or ninth or 23rd time, I would pay particular attention to the tennis court area. I’m pretty sure, though I cannot be certain, that once I saw his calves and his feet, but I never met him or saw his face in the height of my obsession. To this day, that’s one celebrity sighting that still holds a thrill. 

I didn’t go to such lengths to help Jade satisfy her desire to meet Hillary. There were no Spielberg estate drive-bys, we didn’t wait with a banner outside one of her fund-raising destinations, but boy did I kick myself when I saw Doug Kuntz’s photo of the Clintons smiling as they shook hands with a friendly passer-by at the Georgica Beach parking lot. Had we been in the right place at the right time, it could have been Jade. 

Back at home that Tuesday night, Jade sadly accepted that her face-to-face with Hillary was not in the cards this time around. The fact that she was so confident it could be is a beautiful thing. My daughter is 8 and she believes a woman could be president and she believes she will meet her. 

There will be a next time, I hope, and my smart and determined girl, a future leader to be sure, will be ready. 

Carissa Katz is The Star’s managing editor. 

Perhaps someone among our readers knows where a bundle of damp beach things came from and will tell me. I found it on an upholstered stool near the living room door one afternoon in early August, and accused my 15-year-old grandson of knowing who left it there. He had arrived that day alone and left on foot and was as puzzled as I.

The bundle contained a thick, dark-blue towel about six feet long with a handsome insignia on it for Fighting Chance, the Sag Harbor organization that aids those struggling with cancer; a pale-orange T-shirt made of nylon and elastane with the brand name O’Neill emblazoned across the chest, and a red pair of GapKids extra-large boy’s bathing trunks. The shirt and trunks were obviously much too small for the 15-year-old and ridiculously too big for either of my 6-year-old grandsons.

I took them to the laundry room, where they have remained, and when I picked them up to take another look, a week later, they were still damp. August certainly was muggy, wasn’t it?

None of the neighbors is a young man, and no one seemed to have visitors who would fit into the trunks or shirt. Could this be one of those cases in which random roving summer visitors wander into the wrong house? You do hear about people coming home and finding strangers napping in the flower bed or porch swing.

Well, if anyone can claim these things, please give me a call. They looked almost new, and the swimming days of summer are nearly over.

Another August mystery, at least for me, is how the term “August people” became ubiquitous. I must lead a pretty sheltered life in the summer — hiding out, as so many of us do, to the point of almost becoming antisocial — because I hadn’t heard these words used pejoratively until a recent Star staff meeting. 

About a month ago, when a Bloomberg journalist phoned to ask for my opinion on what the nickname for this summer would turn out to be — something usually comes to the fore, like “the summer of the Surf Lodge” or “the summer before Sandy,” in reference to the hurricane — I suggested “the summer crowding got out of control,” which she said was too obvious to catch on. (She was right. It’s not exactly catchy. And heaven knows we’ve been saying the crowding has been “the worst” every summer for 15 or 20 years now . . . though this year, honestly, I think the cultural consensus is that it’s finally and indisputably true that we’ve reached maximum capacity. Anyway.)  

Later, I asked around and found that a number of friends and colleagues thought “August people”could be used for the whole season, to indicate it really had been the most dire: the summer of the August people.

Unpleasantries were described: a tenant who screamed at a landlord, claiming he was spying on her, when he arrived to pick up the garbage; a woman at a shop counter who angrily demanded her change be made more quickly; more and more drivers refusing to give way when obviously appropriate; neighborly pleasantries greeted with snarls and snubs; “namaste” being turned into a passive-aggressive come-back . . . and on and on.

“August people” as a concept was explained by the theory that visitors become tense and unpleasant, and occasionally aggressive, because they are desperately trying to squeeze the last few drops out of a waning summer (for which, in some cases, they have paid dearly). But this year, I was told, the August behavior had begun in July.

It was the summer of rudeness, they said.

Now, I’m not sure I buy it that the rudeness was turned up a notch, but I don’t really have anything better to suggest.

But while we’re on the subject: If you read my account here last week of the first Hamptons Institute panel at Guild Hall, at which the audience booed and hissed, you might be interested to hear that the second panel, on the Supreme Court, went smoothly, with nary a catcall. The audience was quiet and respectful of what the panelists had to say, and Alec Baldwin was engaged and engaging as moderator. It was August, yes, but everyone acted just like April.

I was sorry to miss the third panel, but from the live-streamed version on YouTube, it seemed the audience had reverted to form.