Although the jokey nickname is often used, calling Montauk “The End” doesn’t really catch the spirit of the buzzing community at the tip of Long Island. It has always felt like a place apart — though it is part of East Hampton Town, of course — but the wind-blown, isolated atmosphere that for so long made it feel like an island has diminished as crowds and commerce have descended in force. Still, genuine Montaukers are a breed apart, and those of us from other parts of town are undoubtedly “from away,” as East Hamptoners have called outsiders for generations. 

I didn’t expect to find myself thinking about what makes Montauk unique when I went to a delightful concert there last weekend, but the evidence was clear that the hamlet is still different. As regular readers of this column are probably aware, my husband and I are fans of classical music and frequently attend concerts on the booming classical scene. But even we must admit that the standard South Fork audience for classical music is, you know, white-haired. Not so in Montauk.

Lilah Gosman, a Montauk native and vocalist, and her husband, Milos Repicky, a pianist who is on the staff of the Metropolitan Opera, have revived the longstanding series Music for Montauk, taking it under their wings after the unexpected death of the extraordinary woman who was its spark plug, Ruth Widder. As professional musicians and new parents, Ms. Gosman and Mr. Repicky have a broad circle of accomplished colleagues, whom they plan to call on as they continue the tradition of free concerts for children at the Montauk School, as well as popular concerts for the general public, also free. 

The season’s inaugural concert on Saturday filled the Montauk School auditorium (which also is its gym). Not too many outlanders seemed to be in the audience, but what was surprising was its composition. Yes, the white-haired music-lovers like my husband and me were in attendance, but so were lots and lots of kids. And, guess what? They were almost unbelievably well behaved. 

One little guy, who I learned later was only 1, sat quietly in a stroller seat or on his mother’s lap; a pacifier obviously helped. Another mother, up on one of the side bleachers, held a sleeping child in her lap, while another young girl sat next to them quietly. Several prettily dressed little girls stood attentively and politely for the whole concert at the rear of the auditorium, where they didn’t have to remain absolutely still. They were quiet as mice. 

Two violinists, a cellist, a bass player, and Mr. Repicky were joined by a mezzo-soprano in a program dedicated to spring that was for the most part familiar. But it also included a most unusual premiere: The viola line of the Spring movement of Vivaldi’s “Four Seasons” was sung by the mezzo. She also brought down the house with a provocative aria  from “The Barber of Seville.” 

The concert was in late afternoon, which may have had something to do with children’s being there, but I bet some of them were Montauk School students who liked what they heard and were willing to listen again after, as is traditional, the concert was put on just for them on Friday, the day before.

Various new venues and innovative programs are slated for this summer, and judging by the enthusiastic crowd at a benefit party at Gosman’s restaurant following the first concert, Music for Montauk in its new incarnation will be a wonderful success. Like Montauk itself, it promises to be sui generis, which is to say, in a class of its own.

Lacking much of an idea for a column this week, I took a short walk over to the East Hampton Library. After tiptoeing past a number of people focused on their computers, I went into the magazine room and settled in a chair after picking up a copy of Treasures: Antique to Modern Collecting, which got me thinking.

My own collecting has no particular form, unlike, say, people who scour the markets for cast-iron tractor seats or frog figurines. Still, I am fascinated by those who develop passions for whatever it is and pursue them. Then, too, the differences between the genders, at least in our house, are notable.

The guys, counting myself, assemble action-related objects. Ellis, who is 5, likes Lego kits to make specific battle figures, although he also likes his blue stuffed animals. I go in for surfboards, of which I have perhaps 10, though only about half are in good enough shape to ride; the others are what one might charitably call projects. My other sizable accumulation is of fishing gear, more rods than I can estimate and, in the basement, cardboard boxes of lures, hooks, line, wire crimpers, waders, nets, weights, and who knows what.

As for the women in the house, as best I can tell, they collect bottles of shampoo. I’m not kidding.

Nearly every horizontal surface in one of the bathrooms is lined with them, all shapes and sizes, some precariously designed so that if I so much as look at them the wrong way they will cascade to the floor.

All shampoo puzzles me. The way I see it, you find a brand you like and then stick with it. Not so the ladies, apparently, that is my wife and two daughters. Our house has bottles boasting avocado, bounce enhancement, color control, jojoba, and argan oil.

This last shampoo reminds me that on our honeymoon in Morocco we saw goats climbing argan trees, though it is not likely that my wife bought this particular shampoo concoction in fond memory of the trip; the sad, half-used-up bottle spent the winter in the outdoor shower on the deck.

It was difficult last week for me not to go down into a historical rat hole while working on a story about how the East Hampton Library had recently completed the digitization and cataloging of a long-sought collection of papers from Montauk’s early days.

I encourage anyone interested in such things to take a look at the library’s website, under the Long Island History-Digital Long Island tab. From there, one can find a link to the Proprietors of Montauk Collection (Arthur W. Benson Papers) and on to thumbnail images of the remarkable holdings.

In an account that appeared on The Star’s front page last week, I outlined some of the papers’ history: how Arthur Benson spirited them away in about 1885 and how his granddaughters eventually deposited them with what would become the Brooklyn Historical Society. Then, how East Hampton Town officials and, later, representatives of the library, had for decades sought their return.

This is a provocative tale in which one can find plenty of similarities among Benson and any number of today’s urban sophisticates who are bent on bending the locals to their will. Just consider the seemingly unending string of out-of-town investors and developers whose designs on Montauk and desire to influence the outcome of regulatory decisions by whatever means possible have continued to the present day.

Contemporary speculators have nothing on those who came before them, whose record of deliberate dispossession of the native Montaukett people is deeply unsettling. The oldest item among the papers now on view via the library is a 1702 agreement in which Ungomont put his mark on a document relinquishing any claim to his ancestral land, saving for himself the right to continue planting crops. Almost 200 years later, promises that the Montauketts could continue to grow food and pasture livestock there were among assurances that Benson and his subordinates aggressively sought to eliminate.

While working on the story last week, I took down a copy of my grandmother’s “East Hampton History and Genealogies” on the chance that there might be something in it about George Fowler, a Montaukett whose story figures prominently in the Benson papers. To my chagrin, though I was not surprised, there was no lineage provided for the Fowlers, nor for the Pharaohs, another Montaukett family. This seems an oversight clearly in need of correction.   

It takes courage and tremendous power of persuasion to convince the electorate, and the powers-that-be, that the general consensus on a matter of public policy is wrong. Kevin McAllister and Mike Bottini showed that courage when they filed a lawsuit last week to try to stop the construction by the Army Corps of Engineers of a 3,100-foot-long and 50-foot-wide revetment along the ocean beach at Montauk. I’m not so sure about their powers of persuasion.

Defend H20, which Mr. McAllister founded not long ago, and Mr. Bottini, who happens to be chairman of the Eastern Long Island chapter of the Surfrider Foundation, brought suit against every entity involved — the Army Corps, the New York State Department of Environmental Conservation, East Hampton Town, and Suffolk County.

Shoreline experts say the structure will inevitably devour what beach is left in Montauk’s downtown area. The evidence also is clear that without massive erosion-control measures, and ongoing maintenance, some of Montauk’s prime resorts will eventually be destroyed in storms. It’s an inherent conflict, and except for the plaintiffs in the suit, local officials and other environmental organizations have opted to take the side of the private property owners. It seems as simple as that.

East Hampton Supervisor Larry Cantwell and the members of the town board allowed nominally higher government agencies to take over. They may have thought the right of property owners to protect their considerable investments was more compelling than protecting the public beach, or they may have feared, given Montauk opinion, that opposing the Army Corps plan would tear the town apart.

But well-meaning local environmental organizations also stood down. They are, of course, run by boards of directors who, regardless of acumen or dedication to the natural world, tend to be people of certain wealth who value property rights highly; the more valuable properties are, such as Montauk’s oceanfront motels, the more powerful their influence.

The Group for the East End and the Peconic Baykeeper, which might have been expected to warn that the project would have a negative effect on the beach, have not been heard from, while Concerned Citizens of Montauk, which raised pertinent questions about metho­dology, apparently is ready to accept its construction. Nor have the town trus­tees said anything, although it is unlikely their opinion would matter.

Tremendous power of persuasion would have been needed to convince the town and its taxpayers that the current Army Corps project and the long-term costs of maintaining or rebuilding the structure would be more costly than finding a way to do the right thing, by which I mean saving the beach. Proactively moving some of the endangered motels away from the oceanfront and arranging for others to be reconstructed elsewhere after heavy damage in the future would have been required.

What is about to happen may do no more than delay the inevitable, and with money to be made until then, it is no surprise.   

Yes, to school. Our son, Ellis, and his prekindergarten classmates have been studying animals, with the usual parade of bunnies, a service dog, a lizard, and a small fuzzy creature of a sort Ellis could not quite identify. Leo would fit right in, his teachers said, and I could not refuse.

Getting Leo ready for his big outing was no small task. First there was the matter of finding a harness that would fit his un-canine-like proportions. Then there was the issue of making him presentable.

As I found out, regular dog harnesses don’t really work for pigs. Though only about 75 pounds — small as far as adult porkers go — Leo’s neck measured in at 31 inches around, and his girth at 33. The three pet shops I managed to drive to did not have anything that large, so, regrettably for local commerce perhaps, I turned to the Internet. Amazon had something that looked right and for a fee would have it to me the following afternoon.

Once the harness was in hand, I modified it by cutting out a strap that hung between Leo’s front legs, tripping him up, and tried to get him used to the feeling of being constrained. My initial attempts took place while he was eating, and they went more or less without incident.

Washing his face proved another thing altogether. A warm towel sent him into a howling fit, as he backed away on his pointy trotters. If you thought that pigs only oink, let me tell you, when they are vexed, they let off a whole symphony of imprecations. Eventually, he and I settled on a hand-wash of sorts, in which I could rub his dusty, crusty nose with my damp fingers, then wipe them on a towel and continue.

When Leo was a piglet, his feet barely touched the ground. My wife, Lisa, and eldest daughter, Adelia, would carry him around as if he were a tiny, bizarre-looking human baby. Not anymore. Bundling him into the minivan was a feat. Then once he was inside, he hid between the seats and was almost impossible to get out.

By comparison, his classroom visit was uneventful. Leo wandered around munching contentedly on offered carrots. The children asked lots of good questions, then they spontaneously began making crayon portraits of him, and gave them to me to take home.

Leo was happy enough to be done with all the attention, however, and interested more, it seemed, in grazing on the school lawn. I managed to get him back into the car without trouble, although I somehow pulled a muscle in my right arm. Once back home, Leo slept the rest of the day.

In the predawn hours before the boys basketball state final last week, I began thinking of possible headlines, assuming, of course, that the eight-time-champion Killer Bees would win a ninth title. Which they did, in fine fashion.

“Bees on Cloud Nine”

“Bees Swarm to the Task”

“Beeline Made to Title”

“Bees Awake and Sting”

“How the Once Mighty Are Pollen”

“Apidi, Apidae . . . How the Rout Goes On”

“Fab Hive Comes Alive”

“Bee-fense! Bee-fense!”

“Back in the Honey”

“Fans Go Apian”

“Mills Shut Down”

“Uticans Can’t”

“Bees Alight, Put Mills to Flight”

“Bridgies Take Care of Beesness”

“Bees Knees as Usual”

“Hymenopterrific!”

“Bees on Warp Path, Mills Beweft”

Well, you get the idea. I’m not exaggerating all that much. I’m told I have terminal alliteration, though I don’t worry — it’s a dilatory disease.

Last weekend was the eighth time I’ve seen a Bridgehampton High School boys basketball team play in a state Final Four — the first time, in 1980, was in Rochester, and the rest have been in Glens Falls — and, though I do, it never gets old.

Glens Falls is a rather depressing place, though the Killer Bees always light it up, which reminds me, I hope the sign at the entrance to Bridgehampton, the handsome one saying “Home of the Killer Bees” and listing all the years in which they’ve won state titles, will be put back up. Or if it cannot be found, that a new one will be made and installed with proper pomp and ceremony.

Since my children are grown and moved out of the house, the Easter Bunny will not be visiting this year. But that’s okay because my dog, Brodie, is as soft and cuddly as any bunny rabbit. When he stands on his hind legs, as he tends to do when he’s feeling nosey, and looks out our front window to see what’s going on in the neighborhood, he’s as tall as the real Easter Bunny that visited the Montauk Firehouse on Sunday.

I’ve had many dogs and have loved them all dearly. But Brodie is an outstanding dog, as close to being human as any animal I’ve come across. Sometimes when he looks at me it appears as if he has something to say. I tell him, don’t you dare start talking to me because I’d have a heart attack, and there would be one less person for him to love, and he needs love, constantly, every day, all day long. It’s exhausting sometimes. If he were to talk, he would probably ask if we could go outside and play ball, his favorite pastime.

After my other dog, Jack the Whack, died I was offered a free puppy from a large litter of puppies that were being sold for over $1,000 each. I didn’t plan to get a dog so soon after Jack died because he was such a handful, hence the name Jack the Whack, which a neighbor came up with. I thought, stupidly in hindsight, that I’d just take a look.

When I entered the room the puppies were in, this little guy pushed past the others and ran to me with a smile on his face. When I picked him up he immediately snuggled into my neck, making him irresistible. Of course I chose him and haven’t for one minute regretted my decision.

Brodie is a goldendoodle, more golden than doodle. He’s got big, expressive brown eyes and long blond hair that falls off in clumps all over my house — his only fault. People often mistake him for a girl and say, “She’s so pretty.” He doesn’t care; as long as he’s the center of attention you can call him anything you want.

He was 12 weeks old when we brought him home. His brilliance amazed us. He immediately knew his place in the pecking order and that I was the queen of the castle, really a small ranch-style home. But my husband became his best buddy. He knows when it’s Peter’s day off from work and stays by his side all day, giving me a break from the constant need for attention, like a toddler.

And when Peter has to go somewhere on a day off and cannot take Brodie, pretty boy sits with his nose to the door waiting for his return. I can tell when my husband’s almost home from work because Brodie picks up the sound of his van well before it turns onto our block, and he gets all excited.

Whenever he can, he takes Brodie with him in the van. Brodie and I are both blond so people often think it’s me sitting in the passenger seat. Until, that is, they realize that my nose couldn’t have grown that much since the last time they saw me.

His understanding of the human vocabulary is impressive. After a long day of writing and cleaning up the house, I try to take an hour’s break and ice my bad knee before the dinner routine begins. I tell Brodie it’s quiet time and he goes right to his bed. When I say it’s dinnertime, he goes to the kitchen. “No bed,” he gets off my bed.

A few weeks ago I was sick with a respiratory infection and had a reaction to the cough syrup the doctor prescribed. It really scared me, but what scared me more was that Brodie knew something wasn’t right and sat close to me, all noble-like, looking straight ahead but giving me constant side-eye to make sure I was okay. He looked ready to give me mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.

He’s a gentle giant, my boy. Neighbors have a little pug and they’ve told us how gentle Brodie is when they meet outside and play. Since he’s a male and the pug’s a female, I think he’s just contemplating how he could play with her doggie-style, if you get my drift.

My husband thinks Brodie needs a playmate, and I mean that in every sense of the word. I always wanted to breed dogs, and if there’s ever been a dog whose genes should be shared it’s this guy. Please don’t write letters saying I’m irresponsible to breed a dog when there are so many shelter dogs available, and they are wonderful dogs, but some people, especially those with children, want a specific breed and golden retrievers often rank high on the lists of best family dogs.

So once I recover from knee surgery, scheduled in two weeks, Brodie might be getting a playmate bunny, and I might be getting a heavier workload. But if it takes some of his constant need for attention off me, it’ll be well worth it. He’ll make a wonderful, loving father and receive the undying love he requires from his offspring.

Janis Hewitt is a senior writer for The Star.

Although we all know that language is constantly changing, that the English we use today is quite different from what it was in Shakespeare’s time, I can’t help wondering where certain words and phrases come from and how they become ubiquitous. Like others who write or edit, I keep my eyes and ears open, and I am not always happy about what I read or hear.

I blamed President Bill Clinton for starting a stampede in the use of the word “grow” in connection with the economy. Metaphors can be swell, even enlightening, but where I came from you could only grow a living thing. Grow soon became common with regard to inanimate objects or processes; the English-speaking world at large didn’t mind, even if I did.  

More recently I have to admit to being bothered by the thousands of times I hear that something is “gaining traction” or has “transparency.” Traditionally, both words refer to things that are physical, even scientific. “The car’s tires failed to gain traction,” for example. The first people to use that phrase in connection with an idea or activity were imaginative, using language well, but  “traction” has become repetitive and thoughtless, almost a verbal tic.    

As for “transparency,” the word has moved decisively into the metaphorical sphere. Defined as the transmission of light through physical matter, the word now is used all the time in referring to whether information or policies, particularly those of government agencies, are available to the public and to what degree. 

I am not an expert, but I pay attention. I have come across what seems to be an increasingly topsy-turvy use of the words “a” and “the.” As far as I know, referring to something that is not known to the listener or reader it is correct to use the word “a.” When the audience has prior knowledge of what is being referred to, the word “the” is in order. Simple enough, one would think.

But whether something is known and familiar is often a matter of judgment. If you believe the readers of The Star, for example, are aware of the plan to build a seawall in Montauk, you might write or say, “The Army Corps of Engineers plan to build a seawall was challenged in court.” If, however, you do not think our readers can be counted upon to know about the plan, the sentence would be, “An Army Corps of Engineers plan to build . . .

That decisions about grammar and punctuation are often subjective was explored in an article in the Feb. 23 and March 2 edition of The New Yorker by Mary Norris, a copy editor there. She takes on the correct use of “that” and “which” and stands up for The New Yorker’s using the serial comma. (The Star uses the serial comma, too, veering away from New York Times style, which we otherwise follow.) The serial comma is the one before the word “and” unless the last items in the series go together, like bread and butter.

Falling into a trap I have set for myself, I have to say Ms. Norris is “spot on” (cliché alert!) as well as funny. The heart of the piece is an explication of The New Yorker’s use of commas. If you can’t imagine how discussing the use of commas can be funny, you won’t want to bother with what she has to say. If you can, however, I recommend the article and hope Ms. Norris offers an encore soon. I want to know what she thinks about “a” and “the.”

Columbia Journalism Review’s lengthy analysis of “A Rape on Campus,” a 2014 Rolling Stone article that was largely based on allegations that could not be verified, is an education for everyone who works in the news business as well as for readers.

To recap briefly, the article in Rolling Stone recounted a story provided by a woman whose name it withheld about an alleged gang rape at a University of Virginia fraternity house. Quickly, though, the account was called into question, with writers for The Washington Post and Slate, among others, expressing serious doubts within about two weeks of the story’s publication.

Key to the original criticism of the piece, by Sabrina Rubin Erdely, is that the news media almost always obtain comment from individuals accused of criminal acts or from their representatives, and that Rolling Stone had been unable to do that. Ms. Erdely tried, but was unable to independently verify that the unnamed men accused of rape actually existed. Basic standards of journalism dictate that the story should have been killed right there.

To a significant extent, Rolling Stone’s easy willingness to use anonymous sources is a problem that could affect any number of publications. “Jackie,” the pseudonym given to the U.V.A. accuser, could say whatever she liked with minimal risk of consequences. And, without a police report indicating that a crime had been committed, there was no indication, other than Jackie’s word, that one had taken place. This lack of accountability did not deter Rolling Stone, or Ms. Erdely, who continued to say after questions were raised that she found Jackie’s story credible.

Had Rolling Stone’s editors balked at hanging such a serious piece on an anonymous source, with the identity of alleged perpetrators obscured, a marred account could have been avoided.

At The Star, our rule on unnamed voices is to avoid them in almost all cases. Anonymity is only justified when the information is essential to a story (which is almost never) and the speaker’s identity and credibility is known to an editor.

Ms. Erdely could have written a powerful story about sexual violence against women on campus without Jackie’s allegations. There is no story so compelling that it should not be checked out.   

“You’re quite the tennis player,” my younger opponent said the other night.

Well, I would like to think so, but there’s much to do. Several times recently I’ve felt I was on the brink of mastering my serve, only to be disabused. Tim Ross says he has that got-it-nailed feeling with his golf swing at times only to have it vanish the next time out.

“I think I’m just about there,” I said to him the other night after the younger player and I had finished a good match. “I’ve just got to remember to crook my elbow and wait a bit before letting it reach up for the ball.”

Lisa Jones, my teacher, says she has a book in mind about tennis that she would like to call “The Gathering.” I gather it has to do with properly preparing to stroke the ball that’s headed your way. Sadaharu Oh, the great Japanese home run hitter, said something to that effect in his autobiography, I believe, to wit, that the pitcher and batter were, while in opposition, also in unison, when the pitcher, who has gathered himself, delivers the ball to the plate while the batter — cranelike, on one foot, in Oh’s case — gathers himself to hit it.

And that’s something I could work on, having mistakenly characterized my opponents, when I began to play singles again last fall, as the enemy, rather than view them as potential partners in the creation of a good match, which is to say a balanced one.

Fueled by an obsessive pursuit of winning in the fall, I won a lot. I win some and lose some now, and am having more fun, which, as Abby Okin reminded me not long ago, is what playing tennis ought to be about.

In having more fun though, I’m no less intent on improving — is that a disease? — and have thus asked Rob Balnis, who’s strengthened my shoulders and core greatly in the course of the past year, to help me become increasingly nimble afoot, and to help give me “wrists of steel — like Lisa’s.”

“Wait . . . wait . . . reach up!”