This past September I went to see Madonna in concert at Madison Square Garden with my concert buddies, Yuka, Maxine, and Tom. 

Yuka and I drove to the city. When we arrived we were both tired, since we had worked all day, especially Yuka, who is a talented costume designer and was on call for a film set at 6 that morning. We joined Maxine and her husband, Tom, who were already at the concert — Tom, who once told us Madonna was his baby sitter. She would bring her boyfriend over while baby-sitting, he said, and told him not to tell his parents because she really loves to baby-sit. Sounds like Madonna. 

Before the concert started, we all appeared calm; I was falling asleep, since it was way past my bedtime. At 10 she came out dancing and singing with her entourage, and we had a surge of adrenaline. Later I was emotional as I sang along with her classic hits like “Vogue,” “True Blue,” and “Burning Up,” to name just a few. At some point during the concert Madonna said she was feeling nostalgic and that she had played at Madison Square Garden 30 years ago. She was lost in sentiment, and so was I. Her music was what I enjoyed listening to in my younger years. She was my idol and still is! Not only was I in the same place as she was, but we were also both in the same nostalgic mood. I was in total bliss.

Part of the lyrics to her new song “Rebel Heart” touched me the most. The part when she sang, “Hearing my father say: ‘Told you so, told you so. Why can’t you be like the other girls?’ I said: ‘Oh no, that’s not me and I don’t think that it’ll ever be.’ ”

It reminded me of my oldest daughter, Kelsey, who just became a teenager and started to show some signs of rebellion. Over the summer, she wanted to dye her hair blue. I said, “No, it would ruin your beautiful long hair. Why can’t you be like your best friend, Emma? She didn’t dye her hair and see how healthy her hair looks.” 

“But, Mommy, please, it’s my hair.”

“Yes, it’s your hair,” I replied, but I get to look at it and wish you didn’t have blue hair.” Eventually, after numerous pleas, I gave in. I said, “If you only dye the ends of your hair.”  

“Okay, Mommy,” she said in her sweetest tone. She dyed her hair at my parents’ house with my sister’s help.

The blue hair was not blue, but a seaweed green color, which was perfect because that weekend at a beach party we were going to she could blend in with the seaweed while swimming in the ocean. But she ended up dying half of it, rather than just the ends. 

I was mad and I couldn’t help but try to find comfort from my colleague the next day. Kathy said, “Don’t worry; this is nothing. Let her make her own decisions and her own mistakes.” 

I thought about it and I guess she’s right. But I’ll still be there to help and guide her with good decisions, whether she likes it or not.

Last week, she wanted to trim off all the dye, because that part of her hair looked all dry and unhealthy. Excerpts from that song came to my mind, “Told you so, told you so.”

Now she has the cutest hairstyle for the holidays. She didn’t look bad with the blue-green hair. But I like her new hairstyle better! 

Just wondering what my young rebel heart will do next. 

Yupay Vong works in The Star’s production department.

A friend with a bad cold handed me a sheaf of papers the other day, and although I was pleased to receive them, I was secretly thrown into a panic. I wasn’t in a place where I could immediately wash my hands, although when I eventually did, I sang “Happy Birthday” to myself — twice.(That’s an old trick for figuring out how long you should wash for it to be effective in removing germs.)

Actually, I wasn’t just thrown secretly into a panic; I was aghast. That’s an overdramatic word, but I had gotten over a cold only about three weeks ago, and have been sneezing and blowing my nose ever since.

As I write this, I must admit that, if indeed a cold is what we’re dealing with, it was more than likely I and not my friend was responsible for passing the germs around in the first place. But I wasn’t in a mood to admit it: This sneezing has goneon so long that I am feeling the need to find someone to blame.

Now, my husband hasn’t had a cold this autumn at all. We sleep in the same bed and are apt to share a spoon over dessert and he hasn’t shown the slightest sign of catching this never-ending cold. So maybe it’s allergies, after all. But how could it be allergies? We had at least one frost recently, and frost is supposed to kill whatever pollens are flying around. Isn’t that what they say?

Okay, yes, I know, there are many other nuisances you can be allergic to — mold, for example, or plain, old-fashioned dust. I don’t think I’ve been around much mold, and whatever dust is near my workspace or home has been there, well, forever. (I think it would be excessive to do an extra-zealous cleaning of the house and office just because I sneeze a lot. And, besides, this cold has left me in no mood for overzealous bouts of house-cleaning. Have I mentioned my mood?)

You, like me, might also have been sneezing a lot lately. It seems like everyone’s got it, whatever it is. What allergens are in the air in October and early November? Isn’t it a bit late for ragweed and goldenrod?

Along with a mild but obnoxious illness of this sort comes a certain civic responsibility. Do you venture out among strangers, friends, and family? If they are thrown into a panic by your sneezing and nose-blowing, do you explain that the cold-versus-allergy question remains unresolved? Are such symptoms sufficient excuse to stay home and read a good book under a blanket on the couch?

Google has plenty of suggestions for how to stop a sneeze — many of them on the painful side. You can pinch your upper lip, your earlobe, or the fleshy place between thumb and forefinger. You can squeeze the tip of your nose, clench your teeth as if in anger, or bend over and hang your head while sticking out your tongue (in the privacy of your own home, I’d suggest).

A few of the remedies sound more pleasant. You can inhale peppermint oil or lemon oil, drink fennel or chamomile tea. But the one I like best, maybe because it sounds strong and just nutty enough to conceivably work, is to crush four or five garlic cloves into a paste and to inhale the fragrance. Tonight at supper, maybe. At the very least, it might discourage my husband from poaching my ice cream spoon.

Thursday mornings at The Star are a time to regroup. The prior week’s news and features have been neatly filed, edited, printed, and bundled. The slate is clean. And although the editorial meeting to discuss the following week is only minutes away, there is a sense of relief, ease, and release, a calm before the next approaching storm.

In this climate, more wide-ranging discussions than the local focus we take during the early part of the week often develop. Last week, David Rattray, The Star’s editor, and I were discussing a story we had heard on NPR about how scientists had genetically modified brown fruit flies to become blond and how the application could be used in the future for eradicating Lyme disease in deer ticks, malaria in mosquitos, and in other momentous ways.

It was great science-nerd stuff and fascinating, too. But then, my eyes settled on the coffee cup he was holding, or, more precisely, the lid. It was flat, one of the ones that have the pull tab that is supposed to fold down but generally sticks up in the air, hitting your nose when you go to sip from it, and that also doesn’t close again all the way, leaving puddles of coffee in the car cupholder.

My thoughts turned to my own raised lid with the tiny hole cut out of it and something a man told me in Tate’s Bake Shop a few years back when I was pouring my coffee. He said that women always choose the domed lids and men the flat lids.

Since I often go to Java Nation on my way to work and David does too, I interrupted to ask where he had bought his coffee. It turned out both he and I had stopped at the same coffee shop, were confronted with the same decision, and he had gone for the flat lid, while I had chosen my usual, the raised.

Until that moment, I hadn’t really thought about the observation of that man at Tate’s. When I asked David why he chose the flat lid, he said he just liked it better. I told him the story. He said, “That’s great. You have to write about it.” (Note to self: Do not bring up quirky observations on Thursday mornings.)

I’d like to say I’ve done extensive research on this matter and have devised some perfectly random sample for a definitive survey of this thesis with a 95 percent confidence level, but that is not so. During the editorial meeting that followed, only one other male in the office had a coffee cup. His lid was flat — a good start.

Starbucks, which determined long ago that only the raised lid would do for its coffee cups, is such a big player that it was difficult to collect much data outside of its loyal following. It really came down to just a few conversations I’ve had over the past week with local baristas and coffee merchants who provide both types of lids.

One female, who hadn’t thought about the connection until it was proposed, agreed that men tended to reach for the flat lids when there was an option. As for a reason, she suggested that women like the neatness the raised lid provides with sipping and in the car. She joked that men tend to make the same ingrained choices over and over again. The flat lid was good enough for their first cup of coffee, and that’s what they’re sticking with. After that conversation, I was sure I was on to something. The next day in Java Nation, however, both men in the store had cups with a raised lid.

Now, when I’m around town, in stores, lines, or wherever I see anyone holding a coffee cup, I look at the lid. I’d say the guy in Tate’s has a point, but there will always be outliers, creative types, lone wolves. To them and to those of any gender who make those lid choices everyday, I say vive la difference. And feel free to let us know your preference and why, because now I am intrigued.

There haven’t been a lot of cranberries in the bog down our way in Amagansett lately, and there haven’t been all that many foxes either. It is probably related.

There had been a frost or two out on Cranberry Hole Road, a sign that it was time once again to go gathering. Since Sunday was a pleasant day, our son, Ellis, and I walked over from the house to a spot that in my own childhood memory was always full of cranberries.

With our trousers tucked into our knee boots, Ellis and I avoided getting wet as we pawed among the grass to expose the plants and look for the ruby-hued fruit. We found a few handfuls, enough for a small dish of turkey-side relish, I suppose. But more interesting, as we crept about, we noticed tiny, winding trails in the mud.

Walking a bit farther into the bog, I flushed a deer mouse, which dashed off toward the edging pines. It was gone by the time Ellis ran over for a look. That got me to thinking.

If mice eat cranberries and foxes eat mice, then fewer foxes might mean more mice, which would mean fewer cranberries, all other things being equal. There were more foxes around when I was a child and my father took us to get cranberries in advance of the Thanksgiving meal. Maybe it made sense.

Of course, plenty of other factors might be at work. There is an absolutely prodigious acorn crop this year; both the red and white oaks have been dropping them like so many tan hailstones. Ellis and I were at the town youth park on Abraham’s Path the other day, and the bike track there was studded with them.

I offered up my idea about the relative lack of cranberries to Russell Bennett, who lives about a half mile to the west of us on the road. His take, considering the number of rabbits and pheasant he has seen lately: “Next year will be a very good one for the foxes.” He might have a point.

“I’ve got no one left to root for,” I said to Rob Balnis during a workout at East End Physical Therapy the other day. “First the Pirates, then the Mets, then the Steelers. . . .”

Then, knowing he’s an ardent Buckeye fan, I added, “Maybe I’ll root for Ohio State. . . .”

“No, no, please!” he said, figuring that given my track record I might well be the kiss of death.

That reminded me of Dr. Astorr, who every now and then would come to Wolfie’s Relics slow-pitch softball games. We’d invariably be winning when he came, and then, as he watched, we’d invariably go on to lose. Hughie King dubbed him “Dr. Dis-Astorr.”

Still, given the fact that we were all in our mid to late-40s at the time, it was nice even to have one fan. Mr. Quigley, a St. Louisan, a writer and friend of Stan Musial’s and Red Schoendienst’s who was beloved there, and who summered on Old Stone Highway, was one too, and Mary, who would always say, “Hit me a triple,” made three. 

Then, Friday, the East Hampton High School boys cross-country team and its top runner, Erik Engstrom won county championships at Sunken Meadow State Park — the first time a Bonacker has ever done so — and my spirits were renewed.

I admit I had hesitated — it’s a long drive to and from Sunken Meadow, almost two hours each way — though such a rare feat warranted full-throated cheering, and I’m glad I was there to do that, with the team and its coaches and parents on that balmy fall day. (It’s been 13 years since Kevin Barry’s last championship team.)

Goose shit dotted the broadmeadow where the races began, though Kevin assured me, when I asked if he weren’t worried about his charges slipping, that his runners had cleats.

Erik — his stamina keeping pace with his ambition — won by a mile.

Then came his teammates, each placing high enough so as to best their chief rival, Bayport-Blue Point, in the aggregate by 8 points, according to their coach’s running count.

There were smiles all around then and fond embraces, and the quiet joy that caresses you when you have given it your all.

It doesn’t get any better than this.

I bought recently for our 6-year old granddaughter “D’Aulaires’ Book of Greek Myths,” and then started reading Robert Graves’s encyclopedic version of them, only to realize that while vastly imaginative they are bloody as hell too, to put it mildly.

I presume the D’Aulaires took the rough edges off for young readers, so as to inspire wonder rather than fuel phantasmagoric fears.

In this connection, I remember starting to read to my son, who was then about 5 or 6, “Le Morte d’Arthur,” and then, with his ready approval, putting it down early on because of the gore.

Yet, despite the rapes, incest, castrations, flaying of flesh, and cannibalism (some of that albeit inadvertent), you can’t help but be fascinated by the Greeks’ vivid storytelling and by how at one with nature they were, to such a degree that gods, demigods (my wife sometimes puts me in that category), and humans often metamorphosed into swans, kingfishers, crows, cows, she-goats, ash trees, serpents, lizards, doves, mice, quail, myrrh trees, anemones, laurel trees, hyacinths, olive trees, spiders, owls, golden cicadas, poplar trees, nightingales, woodpeckers, snow-white bulls, eagles, ants, mushrooms, stones, and so forth (though, fortunately, no ticks).

Nature was so much with them. (This was before malls.) It is still somewhat with us out here: I showered outdoors this morning and later parked under The Star’s mulberry tree, like the one where the starcrossedlovers, Pyramus and Thisbe, were to meet, its white berries dyed red by his blood.

Persephone’s about to rejoin Hades for a while. I wish she hadn’t eaten those pomegranate seeds, but a third of the year in the underworld is what the gods decreed for having done so, and so we must have winter.

May it be a time to reflect upon who we are, where we’ve come from, and where we’re going. E.O. Wilson, the antman, thinks there is yet time (though not much) for our “Janus-like species” to work toward restoring the inheritance we’ve largely spent. Will we evolve to that point, or will we remain at war with each other, ourselves, and nature?

What will we metamorphose into?

Well,  I’m finished with the Pirates — for awhile anyway. I had called on Zeus to strike down Jake Arrieta with a thunderbolt, but the best he could do was hit him in the butt with a pitch by Tony Watson in the seventh inning.

And that produced a benches-clearing set-to that was fun to watch, but otherwise it was agony, pure agony. And that’s the way it’s been for Pittsburgh fans in recent weeks, pure, unadulterated agony. I went on to the GoPetition website the day after the Steelers had lost 23-20 on a Thursday night to the Ravens, wondering how many had signed the petition to reinstate Lou Reale as East Hampton High School’s softball coach (the count stood then at 236), when the first thing I saw was a petition demanding that Josh Scobee, the Steelers’ oft-errant kicker, be released forthwith.

Sure enough, he was gone by the weekend. In the N.F.L., as opposed to the East Hampton School District, petitions get results.

I had been feeling rather mellow that day, at least through the first half, by which time the Steelers led, as I recall, 20-7, but at the end I was in full panic mode, excusing myself repeatedly from the dinner table to “check on the baby.”

(Note: One good reason to live in California, and I can only think of perhaps one other, its bountiful organic food, is that televised games from the East are usually over and done with by early or late afternoon, or by 8 p.m. at the latest.)

Thanks to her parents’ oversight — and, for the two weeks we were with them in Temecula, Calif., to Mary — the baby, who was only seven days old when we arrived, is progressing wonderfully. And this I found interesting: In a recent column, written before we, or they, knew what was to be her name, the first word, which I’d lifted from Rilke’s epitaph, was “rose.”

“So, what did they name the baby, Mary?” I said after I’d handed the column in for editing.

“Mary Rose,” she said. Well I’ll be.

I’d forgotten that babies require constant attention, which left precious little for me. As time wore on, I wondered, idly, looking up from my reading (Ovid’s “Metamorphoses”), if I hadn’t contracted diabetes, or, at the very least, gout. My big toe was aching something awful.

“You don’t have diabetes,” Mary scoffed. “Peter said you passed your physical with flying colors. It’s all in your head.”

“No, it’s lower,” I said. And just at that moment, I swear to God (talk about coincidences) a big foot crisscrossed with stabbing red nerve endings appeared on TV. “See, see. What did I tell you, oh ye of little feet!”

Unimpressed, Mary and Johnna went back to their maternal duties.

Though it wasn’t just duty with them; it was pure, unadulterated love — the kind I can only marvel at.

When it came time to go, I said to Johnna and to Wally, her husband, “You’re doing such a good job with the baby.”

“Check her out in 17 years,” he said.

“A two-handed backhand and a semiWestern forehand,” I said, “and all will be well.”

Putter, a male cat who may not have made it, and Summer, Putter’s sister, a shy, small, not-much-of-a-cat’s cat, have both blossomed into Disney movie-like caricatures — possibly, someday, attaining cat-legend status in the Cats Hall of Fame, East Hampton, N.Y.

Putter, a scatterbrained, uncoordinated scaredy-cat, a loose cannon, at times emotionally deranged, a falling-from-beam, running-into-wall type cat, a cat destined for cat heaven at a young age. An indoor cat, a cat who would go into deep hiding at the hint of any housecleaning; later, at cleaning’s end, Putter would wobble out of some back hidden section of a remote closet, his demeanor not unlike the human type you see coming out of Rowdy Hall during German Beer Fest Week, after having imbibed too many pints of beer at 11 on Friday night.

Putter was not a good cat! He was not a very friendly cat! He was not a smart cat! Destiny’s bad door was closing in on poor Putter the cat.

Upon being stuck outside his home, Putter would raise a shrill whine that could wake a demon. Then, a door or window was left open: Behold . . . a cannon-shot cat flying through door or open window at breakneck speed, headed for a lengthy hideout somewhere deep in a back closet, or places unknown.

Putter despised the outdoors, cared for nothing beyond the confines of his small home. Putter was beyond a homebody cat: He was slightly psycho.

Summer the female cat: much the same. Not much of a cat. Not interesting, not friendly, not exciting, did not meow much. The cat did not purr often, eat a lot, run around a lot, did not go outside. This was a classic case of a boring East Hampton cat! Not as crazy as her brother, Summer seemed destined to live a long, unadventurous life indoors, away from farm mice, mole, or rabbit.

What happened to Putter and Summer the cats?

Their cat food was changed some years ago to Friskies Surfin’ & Turfin’ Favorites from a more expensive dry cat food with a fancy name and claims to health and vitality. The transformation began slowly, with antics that may go down in East Hampton cat history. After a year on the Surfin’ & Turfin’ diet, events as such took place: Summer spent days following a giant tired bumblebee that had flown inside. As the bumblebee wearied, Summer attacked, pinning it to a wooden floor and eating it in small bites, each bite showing a cat face of “Wow, triple-X hot sauce.”

Her coat darkened and lightened, her nose became prettier and a square shamrock shape. Summer became a friendlier cat! Summer became a super-clean cat, cleaning herself all day sometimes. Summer is now a nice cat, with cat expressions saying, “Like, get lost, pal, I’ve got bugs and bees to hunt. Where’s my brother, Putter . . . he’s gonna help.”

Putter, after his diet change to Friskies Surfin’ & Turfin’, turned to wild adventure. A beautiful female human guest on the lawn enjoying a glass of Bordeaux wine was asked, “Have you seen Putter?” as early winter night fell. A minute later a giant rabbit ran by, 12 paces away, heading for deep cover in the close-by field. Moments later a streak of a cat resembling Putter ran by, sort of in that direction. Shortly after, an unidentified cat with primarily darkish black markings zoomed by. Putter was having fun with a rabbit and a stray neighborhood cat at the same time. An hour later Putter strolled into the house as if saying, “No big deal, just another Friday cat night.”

Putter’s antics with his 5-year-old male human cousin are quickly becoming household legend. The summertime question arises, “Where’s Santiago?” The fear of Putter badly scratching Santiago: ever present. Yet, miracles happen! Little cousin Santiago Morgan has tamed the beast and is walking around with the cat in a full bear hug, cat legs dangling and all.

Putter seems calm, collected, a super-cool cat ready for anything 5-year-old Santi can dish out. Other encounters with Santi include cat-tail pulling, crawling under bed to harass cat, Santiago using a yellow marker to paint a stripe on Putter’s back — Santiago’s bad little boy behavior gets no reaction at all from Putter the cat.

Of course, little pieces of leftover Iacono chicken are added to Putter’s and Summer’s Friskies Surfin’ & Turfin’ Favorites dry cat food. Striped bass is also added to the mix when family friend Garry is fishing and has extra to give away. Occasionally the two cats get a bit of milk. They dip their respective paws in and lick their feet for hours. Both cats drink a lot of tap water from a bowl.

Don’t think for a minute these are sissy cats. Beware these cats’ claws! Morgan Jr. is neglectful of his claw-trimming duties. After all, he is the owner of the cats. They look like fun cats. They are nice-looking, wonderfully marked cats who run up and down floorboards and furniture. However, a reminder to those who encounter Putter and Summer: They were born feral cats under an East Hampton house. Until their claws are cut and they have aged a bit more in cat years, best to give them room to be cats.

You can try as you might to take the wild, adventuresome cat out of an East Hampton cat! Occasionally that just does not work.

Morgan McGivern is The Star’s staff photographer.

A woman overtaking me as I  walked up — or is it down? — Main Street the other day said in passing that it was a wonderful day.

Indeed it was, I said, “but I hear it’s supposed to get colder next week.”

Later, walking along the shady streets in Springs with Mary, she remarked on what a wonderful day it was. “Yes, but the hours are darkening,” I said.

“Will you stop. Do you have to be such a Gloomy Gus?”

“I’ve been in mourning ever since the Pirates lost that wild card game. Bases loaded, one out in the sixth, Marte at bat. . . . It could have turned around then, it could have turned around completely. . . . Ah well . . . it is a beautiful day. And if tomorrow is not, it’s a joy to be with you. You’re a thing of beauty forever, as Brett Rader said when Johnna posted a photo of us with the baby on Facebook. 

Still, there’s no denying the leaves are falling, that the outdoor shower will soon be a ruined choir, and that the birds will be left to stipulate in the snow, as we, if the past is prologue, fall and crack our heads upon the ice.

Well, bring it on. As Joey McKee told his charges recently, football is life — you get knocked down, you brush off the tire shavings and get back up. Ah, resilience. Give me the seasons. Who wants to live in a place where the weather is unvaryingly fine?

(Thousands do, if Temecula, Calif., where we recently spent two weeks, is an example.)

“It’s like Naples with mountains,” I said as Mary and I drove down the main mall-flanked drag.

I was yearning for the cold and damp then, and now that I have them (another week and the spiders would have taken over) I’m yearning for . . . what? Spring? But we have no spring here. Summer then? Never. Today is rather nice. The late afternoon light is golden and the air is fresh. That ought to be enough, Gloomy Gus.

It had been some time since we last thought about the Montauk Monster around the office. But on Tuesday, our memories were refreshed by a query from a National Geographic television program producer looking for images for an upcoming program.

To be clear, The Star does not own the rights to the infamous photograph taken by one of our former interns, the daughter of our Montauk correspondent. It was Jenna Hewitt who snapped the shot of an odd, mostly hairless animal carcass found while she was walking on the beach in July 2008. I passed the message from National Geographic on to her via her mom, Janis.

A funny thing about the whole Montauk Monster business is that The Star did not break the story. The what-is-it! coverage began with The Independent and took off from there. By the time we wrote about it, it had become a full-blown Internet sensation. TV crews arrived and interviewed Ms. Hewitt and other discoverers of the sad beast, Courtney Fruin and Rachel Goldberg. Ms. Hewitt told The Star that by a certain point the whole thing had given her a headache.

“We’ve had invites. It’s fun, but it’s August, and we work in restaurants,” Ms. Hewitt said. Classic Montauk.

By then, we were on the story, though trying to frame it for our readers more as a media frenzy phenomena than a mystery. The Star’s nature columnist, Larry Penny, had taken a look at the photograph and conclusively dismissed the carcass as a dead raccoon a bit worse for wear for having been in the surf awhile.

Things took an interesting turn, though, when the thing went missing. Two men had taken the bloated and stinking thing away and left it in a wooded backyard to decay, apparently intending to salvage its bones to encase in resin and sell as art. As best as I can remember, the remains were never seen after that, as fitting an end to the story as could have been hoped, I suppose.

Of course, on the Internet, nothing really ever ends, and the Montauk Monster will live on in the vast, vast universe of cyber-speculation. Why, it’s even got its own Wikipedia page, and that’s more than I can say.