There was a near-sell-out crowd at the East Hampton movie theater on Saturday night for the 6:30 p.m. screening of “American Hustle,” and a buzz was in the air that had as much to do with the scandal involving New Jersey Gov. Chris Christie as any Academy Awards nominations.

    “American Hustle” is a period piece of sorts, all mid-1970s fashions amid the loose framework of what is called the Abscam corruption scandal. Sure, the top-billed stars, Christian Bale, Bradley Cooper, Amy Adams, and Jennifer Lawrence, are fine, but contemporary events rang loudly because Jeremy Renner plays a well-meaning populist mayor who is caught up in a federal sting.

    Less a few score pounds, Mr. Renner’s Carmine Polito is a stand-in for Mr. Christie. The character is based on a real-life Camden, N.J., mayor, Angelo Errichetti, who was caught taking a bribe, as were a United States senator and six members of the House, among others.

    No one is saying that Mr. Christie is on the take. Rather, the two biggest allegations are that he must have known about the plot by top aides to bog down Fort Lee traffic as political payback and that he and his family improperly appeared in a federally funded video promoting New Jersey tourism following Hurricane Sandy.

    By the look of it, Saturday’s audience here was heavy with New Yorkers and probably some number of New Jersey residents out for the weekend. Lisa and I could feel the “aha” sense of identification with the story of officials on the wrong side of the law.

    Governor Christie’s stumbles are sad. I was looking forward to a great Republican primary with him in the race for the presidential nomination — and maybe later battling Hillary Clinton for the whole enchilada.

    If anything, “American Hustle” makes the New Jersey debacle more believable. Its images of politicians in their slick suits reaching for briefcases of money left us thinking, “Sure. Of course. Of course, Christie knew. It makes sense.”

    I think the crowd was feeling exactly that way as we walked out of the theater.   

    I had thought I’d been sleeping unduly long — 9 to 11 hours at times if I can get away with it — until I read a report in the weekly science section of The New York Times on the so-called glymphatic system, which takes out the trash, as it were, from the brain while one is in Never-Never Land.

    “So what is removed from our brains as we sleep?” I asked Mary, who is as much of an insomniac as I am a narcoleptic, this morning.

    “I don’t know,” she said. “Read the article. I’ve saved it. It’s in the computer room.”

    “Is the brain’s janitorial service getting rid of my thoughts?” I called after her. (She was hastily getting ready to drive to work.) “But no, that couldn’t be, for I usually let you do my thinking for me. . . . As for the rest, maybe I’m being brain-washed.”

    Indeed. That’s what the article (which, deprived of Mary’s customary sustenance, I did actually read) says, to wit, that the interstitial spaces within the brains of laboratory mice swelled with cerebrospinal fluid that removed toxic proteins (some of which have been associated with Alzheimer’s disease and dementia) while the mice slept or were anaesthetized.

    This “glymphatic” system is said to be similar to the lymphatic system, which removes toxins from the rest of the body after physical exercise.

    Since one apparently needs uninterrupted periods of the kind of sleep that knits up the raveled sleave of care for the janitorial glial cells to remove the brain’s waste, and thus, presumably, to obviate, or at least forestall, the onset of . . . of . . . yes, yes, Alzheimer’s . . . those who are sleep deprived (as the article says 80 percent of Americans are) would seem to be at risk.

    The brain studies — two were cited in The Times article — presage, perhaps, two avenues pharmacological companies may take in the future — one that would “make certain that our brain’s sleeping metabolism is as efficient as it can possibly be,” and one that would “promote the enhanced cleaning power of the sleeping brain in a brain that is fully awake,” a noxious possibility to my somnambulant mind, one that could well cause this idler — who would have, as a result, even more time on his hands! — to lose a lot of sleep.   

    On Sunday morning, I awoke to the sound of running water. Actually, I had noticed a soft flowing noise Saturday night, but decided I was imagining things. After all, a plumber had been to our house to fix the furnace and one of the toilets that very day, so surely nothing could be amiss with our pipes. By Sunday breakfast time, however, I realized I needed to investigate. Peering down the cellar steps, I saw a flood. I put on my cracked old boat boots, crept down, and found half the concrete cellar floor covered with water. It was five or six inches deep in one area.

    The standing joke between my husband and me, when I prove to have a woefully inadequate grasp of something mechanical or electrical, is that his “father was an engineer” (and therefore I should step aside and leave it to him). Nevertheless, it fell on me that morning to take action about the water in the cellar. I waded around trying to figure out whether I could somehow stop the water from getting into any of the fuel-burning elements down there. But I gave that up rather quickly, came upstairs, and called the answering service of the plumbing company that had repaired the toilet and furnace — which burns oil to heat water that feeds our old-fashioned radiators — the day before. I was told a “technician” would call back and let us know when to expect a visit.

    Now, this company had been extremely accommodating on Saturday, and the plumber they had sent then had gone so far as to drive to Bridgehampton, halfway to the company’s headquarters, to meet another employee, who brought him parts we needed to fix a corroded valve or some such. But despite that good service, I was impatient and growing a bit alarmed on Sunday. When no one called back within an hour, I phoned again . . . two, three, four times.

    I was about to call in a different plumber — even if it meant paying someone to fix something that was someone else’s fault, as I speculated it was — when, a little more than four hours after my S.O.S. went out, the nice fellow from the day before arrived at the door.

    He, too, seemed to assume he was at fault. I heard him ask himself, “Where on Earth is the leak?”

    Truth will out. Five or 10 minutes later, he surfaced. The truth was that a garden hose on one side of the house, which had been inadvertently left on months earlier, had frozen and burst, then started flowing when the weather moderated. Water had saturated the foundation and a steady stream was entering the basement. He was relieved; I, abashed and exceedingly grateful when he offered to pump the basement out.

    As he wrote up the bill, he told me that he had been on call throughout the long, deep freeze of the first half of January. We kibitzed a bit. He told me that he used to enjoy deep-sea diving in Florida (quite a plumber-ish activity, I thought), but that he got tired of swimming with sharks and alligators.

    He told me he lived in the Mastic- Shirley area. What was most aggravating, he said, was that sometimes he would be on the highway after a long day, within striking distance of home, when a new urgent call would come in and he would have to turn around and drive back east again.

    “This is nothing,” he said. He had been at work till midnight over the weekend, coping with burst pipes and cellars with water as deep as swimming pools. One East Hampton house had water in the basement up to the ceiling, which was coming down, he said.

    I had been ready to assume the worst and curse the company for which he worked (a company, by the by, that had taken over a local business some time ago), but it turned out to be a lesson in the dangers of hasty judgment, not to mention New-York-minute impatience in general.

    The plumber had been employed with his company for many years and was dedicated, skilled, and willing to go the extra mile in difficult circumstances. It turned out that ours was his eighth emergency call on Sunday.

    They say a good man is hard to find, but I imagine there are many of them in the trade parade that plies the highway every morning and evening. I wonder: These days, when few skilled workers can afford to live east of the Shinnecock Canal, how many good people like him have been priced out of the neighborhood? (And how many sharks and alligators have come to take their place?)   

    About 20 years ago, when my husband and I were courting, we came across one of Dr. Dean Ornish’s  books, “Eat More, Weigh Less.” The word  “wellness” was not in the air at the time, but we were ready, and old enough, to give serious consideration to alternative ways of improving our health.

    The book is comprehensive, with tables on such things as the nutritional content of various foods and sections on motivation and meditation. Dr. Ornish spurns the word “diet,” saying that what he offers is a life-choice program. He makes a strong case for eliminating almost all fats.

    Years later, he was accused — perhaps unfairly? — of contributing to Steve Jobs’s death because Jobs reportedly followed Dr. Ornish’s regime.

    We weren’t swayed by Dr. Ornish for very long. Although we had dog-eared pages with such recipes as couscous with a vegetable tagine and a ragout of lentils, squash, and apricots, I can’t remember making these virtuous meals. As far as I was concerned, Dr. Ornish might as well have called his book “Vegetables, Vegetables, Vegetables.”

    Don’t get me wrong. I love vegetables; I’d rather order broccoli with garlic sauce than almost anything else on a Chinese takeout menu. But my husband and I do frequently feast on the foods Dr. Ornish advises his readers to avoid like poison: red meat, poultry, and fish. (If it has, or had, a face — or a mother and father, as the vegans like to say — Dr. Ornish really doesn’t want it on your plate.)

    Fast forward to 2013. An inveterate reader of The New York Times, my husband was intrigued last summer when he read that Americans were  cooking their way  through “Jerusalem: A Cookbook,” by Yotam Ottolenghi and Sami Tamimi, in the same way they had taken up “Mastering the Art of French Cooking” or “The Silver Palate Cookbook” in decades past. He bought a copy and began cooking his way through it.

    “Jerusalem” concentrates on the vegetables and grains that Dr. Ornish touted — lots of eggplant, kohlrabi, chard, sorrel, and so forth, plus a few extremely difficult-to-find items like barberries or dried limes, but it also calls for a lot of chicken and lamb. Chris ordered some of its exotic mixtures of spices, like baharat and ras el hanout, by mail and began preparing more than his usual share of dinners, which was certainly fine by me. An excellent dish of eggplant with bulgur and yogurt, a barley risotto with marinated feta, and turkey and zucchini burgers with green onion and cumin were among the highlights.

    Inspired (or perhaps not to be outdone), I began digging out the vegetable recipes I’d held onto for years. I now have followed Chris’s lead, finding and making an old Florence Fabricant recipe from The New York Times for a curried eggplant casserole (very tasty) and a ratatouille with butternut squash from Nigella Lawson (terrific). The other day, though, as we drove by a local fish market I wondered if we had taken the healthy eating too far: We hadn’t had any fish in weeks! There has to be something wrong with that.

    We have two friends who tell us their not-so-incidental ailments have been cured by vegan diets. Much as we admire them, we aren’t apt to head in that direction. Just last night I wantonly added sausage to a dish of chickpeas and spinach. Dr. Ornish would probably have a very grim opinion of this, but if age has taught me anything, it’s moderation in all things.

    In fewer than the allotted 140 characters, someone  took to Twitter to make note of an obituary that appeared in The Star last week, but it was a first. Social media has become ubiquitous, but somehow, to my knowledge, no one had tweeted before on what we had written about a loved one who had gone.

    For those of us in local news there is the knowledge that we have far more readers now than we ever had before, thanks to the Internet. What we write now has a long reach and an extraordinary degree of persistence.

    The comment about the late Yolanda Gross came from a nephew who recalled her as a lovely person. He directed his Twitter followers to our website. Two others responded to the obiturary with tweets of their own, spreading word a little further.

    I took particular interest in this, as I guess I am The Star’s web-geek-in-chief, something I can trace back to a beginning computer class at East Hampton Middle School around 1976. John Ryan Sr., I believe, supervised a small group of us as we took turns phoning in to a remote computer, storing little programs we wrote on yellow paper punch-tape.

    Equally, though, I had taken note of Ms. Gross as information about her life had come into the office the previous week. A retired teacher, sometime Springs School librarian, accomplished cook, and classical pianist, she was the kind of person we would have liked to profile in the paper while she was alive. Hers was the best kind of obituary, one that leaves us wishing we had met.

    It is funny to contemplate how far technology has come from those days in the mid-’70s when remote users could connect to distant time-sharing computers, but not to one another. Not that many years ago, it might have been weeks before Ms. Gross’s relatives and friends elsewhere saw her obituary in a clipping sent by mail. Today, word of a death can be instantaneous once it is published online.

    We now realize we are not just writing for a local audience, but that the whole world can look in. Or, as with Yolanda Gross, a wide and affectionate circle of family and friends.

    “The curse of poverty has no justification in our age,” wrote Martin Luther King Jr. in a book, “Where Do We Go From Here — Chaos or Community?” that was written in 1967, and into which I dip every year around this time.

    He said that almost 50 years ago, when there were three social classes in this country. Now, it’s pretty much fair to say there are two, the gap between them continuing relentlessly to widen.

    Those who’ve been left behind have yet to raise their voices sufficiently, and those with power, closeted as they are behind gated communities and cosseted as they are by policies over-friendly to wealth, haven’t felt the need to raise theirs except when periodic mention is made — as is happening more and more frequently nowadays — of this festering social wound and their role in it.

    Brandeis, Keynes, the pope (in his ringing “apostolic exhortation”), President Obama, and now Oxfam have been quoted in stories on the subject recently, nor should the economist James Henry’s finding in a report in The Guardian a year and a half ago that tax-haven wealth — estimated then at about $21 trillion — would be more than enough to pay off developing countries’ debts to the rest of the world be forgotten.

    The Oxfam report says, among other things:

    That “the wealth of the one percent richest people in the world amounts to $110 trillion — 65 times the total wealth of the bottom half of the world’s population.”

    That “seven out of 10 people live in countries where economic inequality has increased in the last 30 years.”

    That “the richest one percent increased their share of income in 24 out of 26 countries for which we have data between 1980 and 2012.”

    That “in the U.S., the wealthiest one percent captured 95 percent of post-financial crisis growth since 2009, while the bottom 90 percent became poorer.”

    And that “this dangerous trend can be reversed . . .  to the benefit of all, through more progressive taxation, public services, social protection, and decent work — all of which can be possible, the report says, should the majority make its voice heard in political forums.

    Perhaps the time for a more equable world, and a more equable society here, has come.

    Dr. King, whose birthday we celebrated this past week, had reason to hope that “a people who began a national life inspired by a vision of a society of brotherhood can redeem itself.”

    Will we become more just? Or will it for us just be more?

    It was 17 degrees that morning, so maybe the reason the conversation turned to warm water sailing was to put our minds over matter. I had been coiling a heavy orange extension cord, which was no longer needed near my desk, and announced rather smugly to a co-worker who happened to be standing nearby that I knew how to coil lines correctly because I had spent a lot of time on boats.

    “You got all but two turns right,” he said rather seriously as he took the cord to put it away. That my score was only fair was embarrassing.

    For anyone who doesn’t know what I’m talking about, keeping the lines on boats stored without kinks or twists is one of the first things sailors learn. A line that doesn’t flow out when it’s needed to, say, tie up at a dock or throw to someone who’s fallen overboard can cause trouble, indeed.

    So I told Paul, my co-worker, a story that I had repeated to others over the years about how little I knew about boats before I came to live in East Hampton. “I was afraid of rowboats in Clove Lake,” I would tell people, referring to a park on Staten Island that my friends and I frequented as teenagers from nearby Bayonne, N.J.

    One of my first lessons in what real boating was all about occurred when my husband-to-be and I sailed to Greenport in an old wooden catboat he had just bought, the first of several we eventually were to own. As instructed, I jumped onto the dock at which we were about to tie up, holding a heavy coil of line. I then stood there befuddled as he yelled — twice — “Take a turn around it.” A seafaring man of considerable experience, he was able to get on the dock, grab the line from my hand, and wind it several times around a heavy piling before the boat crashed into anything.

    Our winter conversation then turned logically to tying boats up at moorings rather than docks, and the tension that might ensue. Paul laughed and told me how he and his partner had rented a boat that was bigger than they had experience with, and how difficult the necessary communication became when they had to pick up a mooring in a crowded anchorage. Nowadays, Paul’s boat is of a size they manage quite well. But even though it is usually moored in a cove near their house, he runs a pick-up line between the real buoy, anchored into the harbor bottom, and a second one, providing an easier way to hook on.

    Before we got back to work, I had another story to tell. One fall day in the 1980s, I, my daughter, and a Star reporter took out our family’s last cruising catboat, which we kept at a small marina on the cove near the entrance to Three Mile Harbor. We were coming into our slip under power when the engine conked out. My daughter sailed the boat in with ultimate grace, evoking approbation from a few people on shore. That she was good at sailing was almost genetic.

    The conversation was then about to veer to ice-boating, but we decided that subject was better left for a hot summer’s day.

    Main Street in East Hampton will never be the same for many of us now that Cam Jewett is gone. Mrs. Jewett was 102 when she died of pneumonia on Jan. 27 at Southampton Hospital — and what a fine, long life she had.

    I first got to know Cam, as she was known by just about everyone, when I was just a child. My grandmother would take me over to Cam and Edward Jewett’s house to play backgammon. The house, where she lived right to the end, is just to the south of the Maidstone Inn, overlooking Town Pond.

    To me, a boy of perhaps 10, the Jewetts seemed impossibly aged, which is funny to think of now, as they were then only in their 60s. Then again, I do not recall Cam’s appearing to age from then to the last time I saw her, perhaps at the front gate of the Ladies Village Improvement Society Fair last summer.

    After my grandmother’s death, and during the years I was away at college and working in New York City, I certainly did not see Cam much. But once I returned to East Hampton, and to the Star office in particular, we had frequent chances to chat.

    One thing that I could entirely depend on was that if and when a car ended up in Town Pond, and I walked down for a look, Cam would be there, usually with her camera. She told me she believed that she had a photograph of every single vehicle that had plunged into the drink there since she and her husband first lived in the house. Cam said she had a box of the photos somewhere and that one day she was going to dig it out for me to take a look at. For years afterward, she would recall this when I ran into her here or there and again promise to find it.

    If there is a secret to longevity, thinking about Cam suggests that a sunny disposition must be at the heart of it. She was unfailingly upbeat, ready with a smile, and a pleasure to talk with. As I have with many older people here, I had made a mental note to stop by and maybe have a cup of tea with her. I also intended to remind her about those photos.

    I’m sorry I did not get to say goodbye, but the decades of hellos that Cam and I shared were lovely enough.

    I saw a film the other night, “Riding the Rails,” and, on re-reading some of my old interviews this weekend, I came serendipitously upon one with Alex F. Dzieman, whom many of you, I hope, may remember as “The Lone Defender” on our letters pages years ago, whose letters were signed “From the Mountaintop.”

    “. . . Mr. Dzieman, who was born in Sag Harbor, reared in Southampton, and who left school at 14 to go to work, said that he and two friends, Joe Arnister and Johnny Miller, ventured forth in 1937 from the Secaucus, N.J., railroad yards, and journeyed to just about all but the New England states and Georgia on top of, within, and in between box cars.”

    “ ‘It was very, very educational,’ Mr. Dzieman said of hoboism. ‘I think I learned more there than at any other time in my life. You learned to love thy neighbors, or get the hell knocked out of you. . . . I couldn’t say there was any meanness. Nobody carried knives or guns. There were so many decent people, so much you had to learn. One thing I learned from the road was to share, to help others out.’ ”

    “ . . . Returning here, at the age of 26, he caddied for a season at Montauk Downs, the former Montauk Beach Company golf course, and recalled fondly the fishing village at Fort Pond Bay: ‘It was beautiful. Their homes were shacks, but it was beautiful.’ ”

    “ ‘The goddam old-timers were nice people. They were Swedes and Norwegians mostly. The wives worked along with their husbands. They were beautiful girls. They could put a dory out to sea like the men, but they still had the human instinct. They were very lovable, even with their boots on,’ he said with a laugh.”

    “. . . ‘Nothing’s changed with the baymen, the clamdiggers, the scallopers, the Bonackers. These people never change. There’s no ostentation of wealth, no show-off. The snow might be blowing through the walls, but they share what they have. It’s a way of life.’ ”

    “Asked what he viewed as man’s worst failing, Mr. Dzieman, lighting up a cigarillo, said, ‘Worry about oneself too much . . . I think you never develop character unless you’re around poor people. Money is not the question — it’s not a life. . . . The worst Town is East Hampton. People there are very greedy and selfish. I call them foreigners. Brother Ev calls them second-home owners, I think.’ ”

    “As for his letter-writing, he said that he kept in his truck a pad for notes. On the Mountaintop he begins a letter to the editor, usually with a pen, works it over, sometimes for a few days, types it, and reads it aloud, memorizing it ‘word for word’ in the process. ‘It keeps me mentally occupied.’ ”

    “ ‘I must have ideas for 180 letters to the editor,’ he said, and confessed, ‘I started off long-winded. I try all the time now to condense. It’s trial-and-error with me. I have to do it the hard way. I try to develop my own way of writing. If I went to high school and college, I’d be what my professor taught me to be. I think it’s better this way.’ ”

    “. . . Asked why he called the Star’s editor Brother Ev, Mr. Dzieman replied, ‘If we treated everybody as a brother, we wouldn’t have this trouble. He gives me a chance to express my thoughts. He must be a nice guy. . . .’ ”  

    I can’t imagine anybody working at a newspaper suffering from the condition known as writer’s block. At a newspaper, you live by a simple creed: Write or die.

    Writing has always seemed natural to me. Whether I was writing copy for advertising or writing a poem or a play, it has always been about hearing the words, then writing them down. Hearing the words, and voicing them.

    Everyone has a voice.

    Today, we all write constantly, a waterfall of words. We tweet and instant-message and blog and email, using single letters and symbols for words and expressions of thought. But I wonder in this waterfall of words, if we don’t, at some point, drown out the sound of our own voices.

    The following letter came out of a large cigar box filled with papers from a Missouri family. How it got to East Hampton, I have no idea. It is a letter home from a Union soldier during the Civil War, Adam O. Branstetter, a private in the 49th Regiment of Missouri.

    I have dutifully researched the writer of this letter. He was born on May 19, 1834, in Pike County, Mo. Son of an innkeeper, he became a hatter. He married Carolyn Little in Wellsville, Mo., on April 1, 1862. On May 16, 1863, his wife gave birth to their only child, a girl, Stella A. Branstetter, whose father enlisted in the Union Army in August 1864.

He wrote this letter in a fairly neat script, but his spelling was hit-or-miss. I added punctuation and paragraph breaks, but left spelling as is.

    A couple of the words I couldn’t make out, but they are just words.

    March 17th 1865

    Dauphin Island Alabama

    Carrie Branstetter

    Wellsville, Mo

Dear Wife,

    I answer your letter dated March 2. I have bin sick for four weeks but am well at this time. I look as gaunt as a race horse, you would not know me. I had the leinil Diarear, it give me fits.

    I am sorry to hear that the baby is sick and father is blind. It grieves me to hear such news.

    We have done some hard marching since we left. Now we lay on the lake for three days in a storm. We have plenty of fresh oysters here by gathering them.

    This Island is about 12 miles long and one mile wide and covered with soldiers. I saw William Motley from Louisiana, he belongs to the Thirty Third Mo. Reg, and several others that I know.

    I expect we will start to Mobile in a few days wher we will have some fighting to do.

    I see something new every day. After we left New Orleans we crossed the Lake Ponchertrain and Mobile Bay. We saw the Bubbles gun boats on picket and we passed Fort Powell.

    This Island is covered with pine. It is a beautiful place and very healthy. There is not a woman on this Island.

    We are only 28 miles from Mobile. We can here the cannon every day. It sounds beautiful.

    I sent a blanket and over coat and one pair of drawers and some other little things. I would like to know if you got them or not, and all the general news, and if the Ualilha has been called out. I never hear a word about Miram Louis’ Family.

    You must be saving of your money for I don’t expect to get any more till my time is up. That is along time. I do not know what you will do for money.

    Nelson is well, so is Peyton, Ben, and Tom is well also, and all the balance of the Boys.

    Give my love to Miram’s Family and Brother Andrew’s family. My love to Father and Mother and Sister Poly Tell  Moly and Bud to be good children, and kiss that sweet little Babe for me. Tell the Babe to kiss its Mother for me.

    You must excuse this bad writing for I am to week. I cant hardly write. I must close.

I Remain Your True and Affectionate Husband Till Death

A.O.  Branstetter

Direct your letters Co B 49th Reg Inft

Mo Vol. 16 Army Corps 3 Division

2 Brig

    Adam O. Branstetter died on May 30, 1865, in Montgomery, Ala. He was first buried at the Montgomery National Cemetery, then exhumed and reburied in Marietta, Ga., at the Marietta National Cemetery.

    On July 23, 1866, the Treasury Department’s second auditor awarded Carolyn Branstetter $145 as a war widow, “less clothing overdrawn, $1.67.”

    T.E. (Tom) McMorrow covers police and crime for The Star.