Last week my broken dishwasher committed suicide.

Yes, I was home at the time. No, I was not in the kitchen.

I had come home around 7 p.m., read the mail in the kitchen as I fed the cat dinner, and headed upstairs to look at emails and sort pictures in my office.

An hour or so later I noticed my eyes were scratchy and there was an acrid odor of smoke in the air. My house is by the train tracks and if the wind is blowing a certain way there is kind of a train smell, which we “trackers” ignore. But this was making my eyes tear a bit so I went downstairs and opened an outside door to sniff the breeze. I still smelled it, so I called my closest neighbors and left a message: “Do you smell something smoky?”

Then I went into the kitchen.

I was just sort of taking inventory as the smoke detectors were not whooping and the cat was just being a cat. However, the dishwasher, which had totally stopped working six weeks previous, was spewing stinky smoke and its little “on” light was shining green.

I called the fire department.

“No hook and ladder,” I said. “It’s electrical and I am looking at it.” I could hear the fire alarm before I hung up the phone. I live in town and could hear the firemen coming from Cedar Street 30 seconds later. I opened the doors and turned on the outside lights.

My neighbors had heard my phone message and they arrived as the firemen did — very quickly. Within two minutes of my call there were about eight wonderful firemen in full gear in my not- that-big kitchen. Bravo, guys!

By this time the green light (which I had not touched for six weeks) had gone out and, while it was stinky, there was

no smoke spewing and no actual firefighting to be done. Some of the guys set about opening every door and window to air the place out (did I mention it was stinky?), and one limber fella got on the floor to make it so the dishwasher could be pulled out.

They were all sure I had done something and I swore up and down that I had not. A moment later the dishwasher relit its little green light and spontaneously began to once again spew smoke. Well, that got everybody’s attention and the electricity to the house was turned off and flashlights were turned on. More windows were opened and fans were found.

They really had thought I was a crazy lady who didn’t remember turning on her broken-for-six-weeks dishwasher! Ha!

In the dark, with flashlights playing on the soon-to-be-murdered appliance, I explained, again, that it was a 15-year- old dishwasher and that it had stopped working (full of dishes, of course) in the middle of August. I told them that after having a mini tantrum and determining with a neighbor that it did in fact not work, I ordered another one for delivery in October, when I knew I would have an open day to take it, re-learned how to wash dishes by hand, and forgot about the dishwasher . . . until the night it decided to commit suicide. Twice. Once for me and once for the firemen.

It was a horrible disaster averted. I could have been asleep (don’t want to think about it) or gone to the movies or been away (don’t even want to contemplate it).

Finally the fire gentlemen dragged the dishwasher, now totally disconnected, out to the front yard, where it sits waiting for the appliance giant to take it away when the new one is delivered next week.

I should mention here that the totally functioning smoke alarms did not go off during this entire adventure. The fire- folk thought maybe I hadn’t changed the batteries or had disconnected the smoke alarms or done something else dumb, but our kindly judge-fireman checked every single one of them and the batteries were all connected and the smoke alarms worked when prompted, but they were not in the kitchen. One is now.

So what saved it all? My nose, my teary eyes, and the lovely men of the fire department!

What did I learn?

When an electronic thing breaks — hair drier, waterpick, fridge, or dish- washer — unplug it. How do you unplug a dishwasher? I have no idea, but I won’t ever leave a broken one plugged in for six weeks, that’s for sure.

Thanks to the neighbor King family and thanks to the gents of the East Hampton Fire Department. I knew you were cool, now I am telling the world.

Durell Godfrey is a contributing photographer for The Star.

“‘Rose, pure contradiction,joy...’”I began as Mary looked up from her porch chair on the afternoon of Tuesday, Sept. 15.

“That’s from Rilke’s headstone.” “...‘To be...sleep....’ Ican’t remember . . . ‘to be...nobody’s sleep. . . .’ ” “You’re right about that,” she said, brightening. “Nobody slept last night — we were all worrying about Johnna.”

Later that night, at around 9, the parturition news was imparted from California, to wit, that our grand- daughter, our eighth grandchild, had, at last, arrived.

And, of course, we all want to know the name.

Even before the mother began pushing, I was pushing for Mary, or at least a name with Mary in it. Their surname being Norris, I thought Marianna would be nice. Marianna Norris would go trippingly on the tongue, I thought. But, as  I’ve been told many times before it’s not about me. It’s about them and what they want. And, besides, there are so many people to please and it is their baby after all.

“I remember being so grateful after Johnna and Georgie were born that it was all over,” Mary said. “But then I realized: It’s just begun!”

We’re all flying blind here, and, unlike the bat I wrote about last week, we don’t have sonar. We bump about.

But there’s the rose and there’s joy, and who could sleep under that many eyelids? The baby, I’ll bet. And presumably the mother and father too.

Pretty heady stuff those exit lines of the poet’s. And so was this entrance, with everyone waiting, waiting.

So, I’ll be exchanging the rah-rah- ing for ahh-aah-ing these next two weeks.

And wait impatiently for the time when she hits her first tennis ball.

The fashion police are making a steady exit from the Village of East Hampton, New York, this September 2015. Also: The National Guard is being considered as a remedy for the poor post-11 p.m. behavior that took place in open view on the streets and beaches of Montauk, New York, this past summer 2015. A group of National Guardsmen may station on Montauk for the summer of 2016 as a deterrent to bad behavior.

It came to the attention of certain residents of the Village of East Hampton that a group of 14 undercover agents of the fashion industry has been operating along Main Street, Newtown Lane, and other East Hampton locations. These agents are easy to spot: They carry iPhone 6s clearly identifiable by their custom cases: purplish yellow red or some uniquely gaudy color scheme. These agents also wear nice fresh clothes, the newest fashion summerwear. Cute, snappy colors, no socks, bright sneakers — talkative individuals they are, always taking snapshots and selfies with whatever or whomever may constitute a new fashionable concept. Mary’s Marvelous on Newtown Lane has become the fashionista headquarters for clandestine fashion meetings.

Not to be played the fool, an unnamed individual who lives near Mary’s Marvelous secretly recorded many of the fashion agents’ meetings. The tape recordings were quietly distributed and listened to by at least 30 East Hampton residents. The cat is out of the bag.

The conversation took place along these crescendos: “OMG . . . locals dress like crap . . . something must be done about this. Did you see the guy in his pajamas checking the surf? What about that mom who showed up to get her daughter at the Jitney wearing a long, worn-out L.L. Bean nightgown, robe, or whatever it was?”

Fashion Agent 2 said, “On the other hand, did you see that sparkling Scoop Beach dress worn by that gorgeous lady? Take note, people will buy that.”

Agent 3 said, “Oh my — the Lilly Pulitzer short dress that 20-something wore on Newtown Lane was to die for. I have the photo . . . mass-produce a version . . . sell, sell . . . sell, sell.”

This was early in the summer season of 2015. The conversations at Mary’s Marvelous among fashion agents, secretly tape-recorded, are now known as “The Fashion Tapes.” Mothers took their young sons aside and put clean, colorful new shirts on them. Wives told their husbands, “Shave, get a haircut, you look scary.” Grandparents called their grandchildren and told them, “Dress better.”

Men told their friends, “The fashion police are here, dress nice; they think we are slobs. Do you want your slovenly image posted on Newsday.com or Patch with the caption ‘Slovenly dress pervasive among East End residents: They just don’t care’?”

The fashion police took notes on many things, including a man who had his money wrapped in a rubber band at the Hampton Market — lots of it? “That lady’s hair looks like Ireland circa 1200 . . . OMG, what is up with the 1967 Raleigh bike?”

The fashion police are pure capitalists. They have ways of selling East Hampton people: clothes, bikes, cars, trucks, bracelets, rings, handbags, wallets, scarves, designer shirts — accessories galore.

The fashion police have returned to tall buildings and nice offices in N.Y.C., L.A., Chicago, Paris to discuss their findings from this summer past in East Hampton. The agents agreed upon these subjects: The Springs hamlet is a hopeless situation — getting those people to buy new clothes is not going to happen. Amagansett is gentrified, a hard market to crack! Ugly, gaudy T-shirts — provocative. Clothing: Sell the stuff out on Montauk. The Village of East Hampton is prime territory — fill it to the rafters with great clothes and accessories.

The fashion police have power. They have decided on big sales and fabulous items of every pedigree to be placed at Scoop Beach, Lilly Pulitzer, Ralph Lauren, Theory, Cashmere Hampton, Lexington. Starting Nov. 12, “Operation Barrage” will begin. The best clothing and accessories are currently being packed and sent to Village of East Hampton storefronts. Love shopping, love the fall atmosphere here, love Starbucks — it is a natural fit.

Even die-hard East Hampton residents are thinking of participating. Possibly a sporty new coat for $165 discounted from $325? How about a satchel briefcase? That would portray a certain skill set. The days of highly skilled craftsmen, guildsmen, artists of merit, politicians, writers, walking around the area in holey sport coats, torn flannel shirts, worn shoes, fishing vests, old blue jeans, cocksure hats, old safari jackets Wingate-style, OMG and bandannas for the longhairs, are coming to an end.

Maybe sad, maybe happy: Residents do not want to stick out like a sore thumb. Clean up, fit in — participate! February will be here soon enough! An older brother told his younger brother, “Ha, shaving is optional by January.”

Item 2: The National Guard plans to be on Montauk during weekends, summer of 2016. Local P.D. are tired of staying up all night shepherding around people who drink excessively. A variety of town personnel have had it with the weekend visitors’ absurd behavior. The homeowners’ thus taxpayers’ funding the good Town of East Hampton see no reason to pay extra taxes for personal police to watch over moronic weekend visitors.

The National Guard will set up tented areas in municipal parking lots to house people who behave badly. The Long Island Rail Road has agreed to send them west for free. It is a win-win? The 40 National Guardsmen will be housed for free on weekends by local residents. The guardsmen will split shifts, giving them plenty of leisure time for the beach and locally sponsored picnics — normal stuff. A great vacation for the National Guard is in its future.

Morgan McGivern is The Star’s staff photographer.

A thick wool outdoorsman’s sweater made by Barbour of England — a gift from a family member who visited Great Britain a lot around the year 2000 and 2001 — has been my husband’s favorite for years. So as his birthday approached a few weeks ago, I decided to buy him another in a different color. A simple task given the simplicity of Internet shopping, right?

I first checked out the online shops of likely men’s outfitters and department stores — Brooks Brothers, J. Press, L.L. Bean, Saks Fifth Avenue — but had no luck. Lots of Barbour sweaters were available, but they either had faux-leather elbow patches (not quite my husband’s thing) or decorative stripes (even less his thing).

Eventually, however, I found a legitimate-looking website heralded with what looked like an official seal, complete with olive branches and a British Union Jack shield at center. At bottom, the site read: “Copyright @ Barbour UK.” The price in pounds was reasonable, and there would be free shipping.

His birthday, however, came and went with no sign of the sweater. Imagining that shipping from overseas was at fault, I sent a polite email to what I thought was a legitimate company, asking whether the sweater was on its way and when I could expect it to arrive. Getting no response, I sent another, which was a little less friendly. I had, of course, charged the sweater on a credit card and was beginning to smell a rat. Sure enough, returning to the website, I found that I had not studied the fine print.

It turned out that my credit cardinformation had been sent to outletonlinestoremy@gmail and that it had a URL reading “Fairwaydenver.com.” Back at Google, it appeared that I had been had. Red flags about Fairwaydenver.com were everywhere. The first scam-alert page I came to warned: “It could be unsecure: malware, phishing, fraud, and spam reports.” At the bottom of that page was a list of information, including an owner’s name (Hdam Yindrik) and country (Slovenia). “This website setup involves countries known to be high risk high percentage of online fraud or tendency to send fake/replica items.”

But wait! Another website-report page came up calling Tu Xiaofen the owner and Fuzhou, People’s Republic of China, the place of origin.

Hm. Curious, I searched further, clicking on ScamAdviser.com. A long list of websites this site had investigated came up. . . . Further and further I went until I came across the following oddly worded advice:

“Do not use them, you are helping a scam to promote their site on search engine and damage other sites reputation. You might said they can spot out a scam, nope, that was a known scam that can be found somewhere on the web. If that was not, they will say ‘xx%’ likely a scam. Everyone can tell this story, not only them. Wake up, don’t believe this scam and help them fooling around.”

I really don’t know at this point if the original retailer is a scam website or if the scam-alert websites are the scam. But the good news is that as far as I know my credit card company either did not receive a charge for the sweater or knew better than to accept it. Still, it’s a hassle and I guess I will have to spend a few minutes this morning putting a block on the card.

Is there a moral to this story? Not really. My husband’s birthday is now a month past, but I have looked around and found a source for the genuine Barbour article in Michigan.

Abby Jane Brody, The Star’s gardening columnist, came into the upstairs office this week and told us about a horde of beetles that had descended on the milkweed in the native plant garden at Clinton Academy, next door. Milkweed borers, she said, make their living on the plants that give them their name, poking a hole in the stalks to lay their eggs. The adults, as I saw when I went outside to have a look, feast on the leaves and seedpods.

Milkweed is a key source of food for monarch butterflies, which, like the beetles, are an eye-catching orange and black. Abby Jane said she had seen few to no monarchs in the garden this year. This was not the story Sunday at Atlantic Avenue Beach in Amagansett, where I went with two of my kids and some old friends and newer acquaintances for a late summer afternoon swim.

The wind was moderately strong, coming from the northwest, and one after another, monarchs came along the beach. They were flying sideways, with their heads pointed into the wind, as many as one every minute or two at times. Dragonflies seemed to accompany them, though moving more deliberately and in greater numbers. It made a pleasing spectacle, a daytime analogue for a meteor shower perhaps in the way we waited for one to appear and then loudly announced its arrival.

For our son, Ellis, who is 5, the urge to chase the monarchs and follow their wobbling paths to the west was too strong. He paid no mind to his older sister as she yelled that he should leave them alone. But try as he did, he was not able to put his hands on one.

Abby Jane was relieved to hearabout our beach sightings of monarchs. There have been reports in the news that their numbers are threatened. She suggested that I take some milkweed pods home to seed a patch of our own. She also said I should catch one of the beetles to show the kids, which I did; they were briefly impressed.

It had been a weekend for monarch sightings. On Saturday, I was among a small group who buried a box of Deborah Ann Light’s ashes at the foot of a pin oak on the Quail Hill preserve in Amagansett. There is plenty of milkweed there on the slope of a small field otherwise at rest. As each of us took a turn placing a white rose on Deborah’s box, and then shoveling it over with earth, a monarch flitted over and back.

It is remarkable that these small, fragile insects can get much of anywhere, flying astride the wind in their deceptively purposeless way, up and down, jogging back and then forward again. And yet they do. Almost as soon as one appeared over us as we went solemnly about our work, it was gone, riding sideways on the wind toward some destination we could only guess.

Salem witch trials. During the dark days of the Red Scare, in the 1950s, Arthur Miller wrote his fictionalized account, “The Crucible,” about them, and the city of Salem, in Massachusetts, recounts the terrible story in museums and in a “Witch Village.” The Salem trials took place in 1692. Nineteen people were hanged, one pressed to death, and four died in prison. You can’t visit Salem without being confronted by what the law-abiding citizens thought and did.

Not everyone who lives in or visits East Hampton, however, knows that we had our own accused witch. After a trial in Connecticut — which was the colonial-government seat for the settlers of eastern Long Island, much closer by water than New York City — she was acquitted of having caused a death by witchcraft and advised to return home and live peaceably. 

Her name was Elizabeth Garlick, and three East Hampton residents want to make sure her travails are not forgotten. Hugh King, Loretta Orion, and Aimee Webb, who hope to write a book about Goody Garlick, were the moving forces behind a conference about her, which the East Hampton Historical Society held on Saturday. 

Of course, in my line of work and because I’ve lived here as long as I have, I had heard of Goody Garlick. I even named a dog Goody in her honor. But I was intrigued by what might come out at the conference and decided to attend.

Goody Garlick was tried in 1657, 35 years before the Salem hysteria. The conference presenters, in addition to Mr. King and Ms. Webb, were Daniel Cohen of East Hampton, who seems to have read the entire first volume of the town records, which cover the years between 1639 and 1679–80, and Walter Woodward, a professor at the University of Connecticut, the state historian, and the author of a book about John Winthrop Jr. It was Winthrop who sagely ruled there was not enough evidence to convict East Hampton’s supposed witch.

It’s hard to imagine that everyone in the Old and New Worlds in the 17th century believed in magic, but a mix of science, religion, and magic was the prevailing way of explaining the world. Even Winthrop, an educated and compassionate man who was actually asked by the people of Connecticut to be governor, was an alchemist. Think of that!  

Daniel Cohen hasn’t lived in East Hampton all that long, but no one can accuse him of being a know-nothing “from away.” I dare say Mr. Cohen is as knowlegable as any bona fide Bonacker about East Hampton’s earliest days. He was the first to speak at the conference, describing what set the stage for an innocent woman to be accused of witchcraft. He summarized East Hampton society as “disciplined, exclusive, and male-dominated” — no surprise, but, of course, the devil is in the details.

 The town meetings in those days had what might be called universal jurisdiction. Women were outside the circle of men, who decided everything. (They even legislated against cutting grass on the dunes.)

Mr. Woodward’s talk was centered on the philosophy of the time, describing the culture’s misogyny, which made it easy for elderly, poor women to be tried as witches. Even highly educated men were terrified, he said, of powers they could not see, powers attributed to Satanic magic. 

Goody Garlick was the first accused witch to be spared death in Connecticut, and no one was executed in that state after 1662. Salem, on the other hand, suffered from what Mr. Woodward called community pathology. Presumably, it didn’t have a John Winthrop on hand to impose some measure of reason.  

At one point in the program, Mr. Woodward showed slides of horrific torture devices, including one, a chair, for primitive waterboarding. One could make a comparison to more recent uses of waterboarding, and modern-day circles of exclusion and power, but I will leave it to readers to flesh out that analogy.

October is here, and instead of framing Goody Garlick in the context of American traditions of torture, it would be much more fun to remember her come Halloween time. Perhaps we’ll see a few Goody Garlicks trick-or-treating along Cooper Lane this year. Halloween, after all, is about assimilating and making palatable things that otherwise would be pure horror.

At a time of year when everything — the lack of crowds, the halcyon weather, the start of school — coalesces to underscore how good the life we lead is, we might tend to take it all for granted. But despite manifestations of extreme inequality (some members of our community depend on food pantries to eat, while others invest in second — or third, or fourth — homes that are far beyond anything we might have considered reasonable in size and cost only a few years ago), we share so many privileges here on the South Fork.

It is more than the gorgeous weather and traffic-free streets that have prompted these thoughts. As I write, today is the second day of the Jewish New Year, with the observance of Yom Kippur, the holiest day of the year, arriving next week. From the time I was a child, I have eschewed formal religion, but some profound messages have sunk in. The Books of Leviticus and Deuteronomy instruct Jews in giving, or “tzedakah,” a word casually defined as charity, but which biblical scholars have explained is derived from the Hebrew word for justice, which I guess is the more accurate definition of the ideal that the observant are expected to pursue.

Never having studied Islam, it hadn’t immediately occurred to me that the Qur’an might also instruct its believers in justice. Searching the web, however, I found a text that explained that the Qur’an “not only lays stress on such great deeds of charity as the emancipation of slaves, the feeding of the poor, taking care of orphans, and doing good to humanity in general, but give sequal emphasis to smaller acts of generosity.”

Of course, Christians share the Old Testament and share similar traditions. Although church-going has, for the most part, declined in this country, congregants can be counted on to be charitable and to do the right thing for others. And many of us certainly try to, in the words of a popular hymn, “Brighten the Corner Where You Live.”

These ruminations may imply that I am turning to religion (supposedly the thing to do as one ages). But no, it is just that I am strongly reminded this week of the commonalty among the major Western religions at a moment when their basic tenets are being distorted in war and in the brutal treatment of refugees in Europe.

Let us count our blessings. Politically, here at home, our fights are about how to achieve an appropriate “quality of life,” not about how to protect our lives from harm. Yes, airport noise and beach trash might inspire passionate emotions, but these problems are also reminders of just how lucky we are and, perhaps, just how insulated from the violence of the world. Is it merely money that insulates us? Or is there, in fact, something in our system of government that — despite all appearances to the contrary — allows foes and debating factions to live relatively peaceably side by side? I don’t know.

I do know that how we react to headlines alerting us to others’ hardships depends on the values we learned at our elders’ knees, as much as it does on our ability to be of practical help. We don’t have to support those organizations that provide food or medicine or shelter to those in vulnerable circumstances. We don’t even have to read the headlines. But most of us do.

Recently I’ve noticed yard signs around town advertising the business of a prominent building company: “Live the Life,” the signs beckon. Is the good life we lead really defined by bulging, multimillion-dollar Shingle Style mansions? Or is it defined by our common will to extend a hand of friendship to our neighbors (or, at least, not to kill them)?

Ellis, our 5-year-old, started kindergarten last week. And, since he attends school where, and in the same building, I did when I was about his age, a lot of memories are being stirred.

Most of what I remember has to do with my friends at the time. We were all at the Hampton Day School, which occupied a former potato farm on Butter Lane in Bridgehampton. Later, Hampton Day briefly became the Morris Center School, then was taken over by the Ross School as a campus for its lower grades. Ellis’s room this year is in the old four-square farmhouse, the same space where my friend Mike and I exchanged blows those many years ago.

We could not have been more than about 8 when it all went down. I was drawing a drag race car, and Mike strolled by to make a comment. “That’s not how you draw a car!” he said.

I responded that if he said that again I was going to hit him. He did, and I did, striking him alongside his perky little nose with my pencil. By way of reaction, Mike ran into the school kitchen and smashed a dish. But he got even, poking me with a pencil on my cheek a few days later.

To this day, we both have more or less matching graphite marks, which we inevitably point out to one and all when we are together and have had a few drinks.

Upstairs in the same old farmhouse is where Milo McFarland and I found a cache of marbles in a bathroom access panel. We divided the spoils between us. I still have my half in a metal box in the basement where I keep my tools. Mike and I have remained close; Milo died in 2002, and we had long lost touch by then.

The cycle of life and death is fresh in my mind this week. Mike’s mother, the late Deborah Ann Light, will be remembered in a gathering at Quail Hill in Amagansett, which was, if anything, my second home during the early ’70s. She was an imposing figure, tall, yes, but more so for her manner, a kind of knowing imperiousness with which she viewed the younger generation’s varied transgressions, of which there were plenty.

We weren’t bad kids exactly. It’s just that we chafed at the constraints of this place and found relief in various kinds of mischief. Later, when Deborah had moved to East Hampton Village and Mike and I were older, there were more shenanigans; we only found out much later that she found this stage of our youth amusing. If she imparted a lesson it was that it was okay to do one’s own thing, but, under no circumstances were we to be overly dumb about it.

We will celebrate Deborah’s life this weekend. Then, on Monday, I’ll take Ellis back to school, back to the room where, once, I was a child as well.

The film festival opens here tonight with a screening and party. Lenny Gail, an old college friend, and his family will arrive tomorrow to take in an impressive number of films with a little lunch and dinner squeezed in somehow.

Lenny is the organized type. His list of what the family is seeing and when is something to admire. I’m more the type who waits for recommendations then tries to find the time.

Last year, I was asked to be on the documentary jury, which meant watching something on the order of 20 short and longer films. Armed with an all-access pass, I saw the ones I was supposed to, and darted in and out of another half-dozen as well. What with a houseful of kids and work and everything else, I am not much of a moviegoer, so the festival allowed me to get in a year’s worth in the space of a few days.

A couple of friends and people we know casually here have films they were involved with in the festival this year. This adds to the complications, obviously, as Lenny and company have their own itinerary. Then there is my own preference for serious foreign-language films, which is a little at odds with my wife’s, Lisa’s, taste.

Some advice: With so many films to choose from, not all seats at all screenings will have filled up. The Star of Sept. 24 included a printed festival program, which can be picked up in shops around town and in Southampton or downloaded from our website. The box office is on Main Street, more or less across from the movie theater, and is open from 10 a.m. to 6 p.m.

A “rush” line forms 45 minutes before screenings, and remaining seats will be sold, one per customer, as they are available.

Hope to see you there.

Whenever the season changes, I think of a woman who worked at The Star some years back who arrived every day more than impeccably dressed. To be sure, she was fashionable, but every outfit also seemed brand new. She would tell us she had a relative who worked in retail and could pass along nice things, but that didn’t seem to account for it. I couldn’t help wonder if she sent every garment to a thrift shop after wearing it once.

As for me, I hold on to my clothes for a long, long time. Sometimes it’s a good thing, sometimes not. One now-vintage dress I still own and wear occasionally in summer is a sleeveless, full-length Marimekko number in a purple and, yes, turquoise print that I bought way back when Marimekko had a shop in East Hampton, where Domaine Wines and Spirits is today, or thereabouts. It had to have been in the 1970s. It’s gratifying to find a past purchase still holds up in taste and quality. There’s definitely nothing wrong with an old but simple cashmere turtleneck, either. In fact, as far as I’m concerned, the quality of cashmere turtlenecks has dropped precipitously in recent decades, and in this case older is actually better.

Of course, most of us are apt to save clothing worn on ceremonial occasions. For men, that might be an army or navy uniform, or a varsity jacket; for women, the dresses they were married in. I’ve got two of them, although I never wore either a second time and don’t expect I ever will. One — an electric-blue satin shift that you could imagine being worn onstage by a member of the Supremes — is hidden in a closet tucked away in the back of our upstairs storage room; I think the last person to wear it was my daughter, at about the age of 12, when she tried it on and accidentally ripped one of the seams. She kept this youthful accident a secret for 20 years at least — which shows you how often I’ve seen the first wedding dress over the decades. My other wedding dress is kept in the back of my everyday closet, in my bedroom, and when I get a peek at it now and again it does rekindle joy.

Unfortunately, there are many more things crammed in these closets that once looked good, and once fit perfectly, but don’t anymore. Do I really need my high school drum-majorette outfit? How about that ’80s shearling coat with the prizefighter shoulders?

I’ve just had another birthday, and my husband and daughter gave me new clothes as presents. I particularly like a funnel-neck pullover from J. Jill in lavender-gray. It looks modern to my eye. I am aware that my family gave me clothes because, despite the crammed confines of my bulging closet, I am known to frequently bemoan the fact that I have “nothing to wear.” The seasons are changing. It’s time for me to purge my closet. I haven’t done it in years.

If you peruse the racks at the Ladies Village Improvement Society’s Bargain Box, it is clear than many stylish women make it a habit to deposit their not-veryold outfits and accessories as a donation. I imagine this habitual kind of closetfreshening being penciled into datebook calendars, Martha Stewart style, twice-yearly. While I’m not certain if my own discards could be classified as desirably vintage (and I know for certain they don’t fall into the “nearly new” category), I am steeling my courage and letting it all go.

The start of fall, however, was not simply a signal to get our belongings in order. It took a sad turn.

We had expected the small, shaggyhaired black terrier we adopted at the Animal Rescue Fund of the Hamptons at the beginning of summer to be with us for a long, long time. She was young, and we named her Sookie. She was adorable, cheerful, sweet, amusing, even captivating. Outdoors, she had boundless energy. Indoors, she loved to climb up onto laps. We all agreed she would make an outstanding circus dog: She could rise up on her hind legs and dance around in circles to greet newcomers. She charmed everyone.

The only thing we didn’t love about Sookie was the fact that she was so determined to hunt. She loved the chase. She tried really hard to catch a chipmunk under the backdoor steps, and managed to dislodge with her snout a shingle on the outside wall of the sun porch, when attempting to bring a creature to bay.

Before bringing Sookie home, we had made all possible preparations, installing a fence around a large part of the garden, making sure the gates had latches. On the first day she lived with us, Sookie ran into her yard and raced around with a kind of obsessive glee. We all said the yard and house were dog heaven.

She disappeared the night of the eclipse, the so-called blood moon. One minute she was in the kitchen saying hello, the next minute she had trotted outside to do her accustomed rounds. When she didn’t come running back into the house when called, I searched the yard with a flashlight. It took a few minutes to realize that someone had left the gate ajar. She had bolted, chasing a squirrel or chasing moonbeams.

She was found two mornings later in the driveway of a nearby house.

Dark dog, dark night, dark road.

We don’t know what life on the streets of Rincon, Puerto Rico, where she was found before being shipped up to ARF, was like for her, but she had a happy time in East Hampton while summe lasted.