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. . . .’ ”  

    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.

    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?

    I want to thank Mr. Ira Rennert. Really. 

    Years ago when he began work on his compound in Sagaponack many were outraged. How could he take that lovely unbroken vista, Fairfield, and build something on it?

    Rumors swirled as more and more work was done in this huge ex-farm field overlooking the ocean. People tried to get a look at it. They flew over it and crept up from the beach to try see what was going on.

    There were stories: a garage for 100 cars, a footprint the size of Grand Central Station, hundreds of windows, tens of thousands of square feet! It would be a hotel, a hostel, a yeshiva, a corporate retreat, a university. Who needs a house that big, the neighbors wondered.

    People talked and whispered, and the traffic slowed to a crawl on the nearest roads. The work continued and continued.

    The fences went up and the sets of security gates. It was taking years to complete.

    Technology finally caught up with the project and satellites photographing every inch of the coastline enabled the curious to finally see the outlines of the parterres and allées and courtyards and driveways and accessory buildings. It was, in fact, huge, very sedate, very formal, with zillions of trees and acres of sod.

    Passers-by were positive this project would ruin the look of the area. They huffed and they puffed and they sort of hoped they could blow the whole thing down.

    And yet, it turns out the visual impact on the landscape is basically nil.

    The huge expanse of sand colored buildings are nestled snugly into the property and while the volumes are astounding when viewed from the air (or diagonally from a side road) the structures aren’t really any taller than the allées of trees. The Rennerts do not have any ungainly towers, swooping porches, portcullises, porte cochers, assorted mismatched rooflines, or encyclopedic variations on window sizes and shapes that can be found elsewhere locally.

    Folks, the Rennert house is subdued in its hugeness.

    I thank the Rennerts for buying the property and preventing the predatory developers (you know who you are) from making clusters of generic faux Shingle Style trophy houses for the nouveau, nouveau nouveaux.

    Across the street from Rennert-land, the sky is pierced by a combination of gambrel/mansard/pyramidal/hipped and semi-hipped, and simultaneously cross-gabled rooves sprouting more chimneys per structure than trees in the yards.

    Many of these faux-architectural specimens sport very tall stonework turrets at the corners of the shingled starter castles, with eyebrow windows breaking the hundreds of square feet of cedar shingles or terra-cotta tiles or both. MelangeHampton. Neighborhoods of flat ex-farm fields sprout tight groupings of spec houses spaced like suburbia — the Hamptons version of Levittown. Is this preferable? If you build it, they will come, and they have, and they will, as the land fills up with ticky-tacky.

    And then there is the previously scorned Rennert property with its low-slung European-style villa, formal gardens, and amazingly nonaggressive presence. Yes, the Rennert place is huge, but the compound is nowhere near as dense as those clumps of developer houses, or the watchcase factory mini-village in Sag Harbor.

    So thank you, Rennert family, for not letting that little piece of heaven sprout at least 480 English-style brick chimneys on at least 60 shiny new bad reinterpretations of the Shingle Style. Thank you for only having one tennis court and one pool, and not overstressing the land. (Each mini-castle in those developments has a pool and tennis and a septic and multiple dishwashers and triple machine laundry rooms.)

    Thank you for leaving room around your buildings for trees and grass. Thank you for keeping your house low so you don’t block the sunrise.

    Yes, dear reader, it’s big. But the alternative to the Rennert big is lots and lots of big. The farm fields will be growing more and more of those very big, generic houses they call McMansions, filling up the vistas with massive rooflines and hedges.

    The Rennerts have finished their building project, and what they have is better than what we imagined it would be and preferable by far to what it could have been.

    Thank you, Rennerts, and by the way, could I come over and borrow a cup of sugar some time? Maybe you could give me a little tour?

     Durell Godfrey, a contributing photographer for The Star, has photographed dozens, possibly even 100 or more, houses and gardens for the paper and its special sections.

    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.

    It was a quiet Saturday afternoon, and Ellis, who will soon turn 4, and I busied ourselves preparing one of the old kitchen chairs for some regluing. It was the pig’s fault.

    One of the more annoying things that our pet house-pig, Leo, does is flip over things when he is bored. Since he is mostly confined to the first floor, where the kitchen is, much of his apparent adolescent piggy angst is directed at the chairs. Already, he has broken two outright, and a third, the one Ellis and I went to work on, was coming apart at the joints. We’ve taken to leaving the chairs on their sides to save the wear and tear.

    His rooting demands at our ankles when he is hungry or looking for a scratching have become so annoying that we have taken to keeping a spray bottle at hand to drive him off. Thing is, though, that he takes the directed water streams to mean only that it is time to move from, say, the left ankle to the right. And he screams bloody murder when we try to push him away from our feet.

    Even though he weighs in at a mere 30 pounds, his snout is so strong that he can lift an entire loaded dishwasher rack. Just the other day I noticed tiny tusk marks on the entryway door, apparently from when he wanted to get in and someone was not moving fast enough for his liking.

    There was a time, back when he was a wee piglet, that we worried about leaving him on the lawn unattended. “What if a hawk flew in and swept him away?” we worried. Nowadays, it is pretty clear Leo would be having any hawk that tried  for lunch.

    Part of the problem now is that it is winter. Leo would much prefer to be outside, eating grass or snuffling around in the leaf litter. Like human kids, who whine about there being nothing to do, it seems all he wants is to be entertained. If I pick him up and set him on my lap while I am reading the newspaper, he nuzzles contentedly under my elbow.

    Lisa and I hope that as Leo ages he will mellow. Until then, Ellis and I will keep the sandpaper and glue handy.

    Sharp-eyed readers of a nautical sort may notice a small but significant change in this week’s newspaper. For what I think may be a first, the tide table, which usully appears in the sports section, no longer gives the times of the daily highs and lows at Promised Land. Instead, it lists the ups and downs for the Three Mile Harbor entrance.

    Our decision to do this reflects two things. The first is that government tide tables are easily available for Three Mile Harbor, and the second is that no one much knows where Promised Land is anymore.

    Time was, Promised Land, facing northwest on the shore of Gardiner’s Bay, was a port of some importance. The Smith Meal company ran a menhaden processing plant there, and the Edwards Brothers brought fish to their dock. A railroad spur off the L.I.R.R. main line once crossed what is now part of Napeague State Park to reach the area.

    Seasonal workers, most from the South, traveled there each year to work on the menhaden boats — bunker steamers in the local vernacular — or in the steaming, hulking factory. When the plant was in full operation, it was hard to miss. The overwhelming smell of thousands of pounds of menhaden being steamed down for their oil and fish byproducts was something one might never forget. Employment there meant money, good money, the story goes, making it a “promised land.”

    Our house, about a half-mile to the west along the Gardiner’s Bay shore, was the nearest to the fish factory, as we called it, until well after it closed in 1968. It was the last of a number of smaller fish-rendering plants that had operated in the area; remnants can be found along the eastern, interior shore of Napeague Harbor and on Hick’s Island.

    According to “The South Fork,” my father’s, Everett Rattray’s, book, the owners of the Hick’s Island factory ran a two-mile-long water pipe from a pump house at Fresh Pond, Montauk. Fresh water was essential to the steam-run operations. When I was out at Napeague recently I noticed what I suspected was a piece of the old pipe now exposed by the shifting sands.

    With the fish factories all but gone, so too is the sense of what was once promising about Promised Land. Boaters do not end up there very much now, except for occasional drifts for fluke or if blown over from the Devon Yacht Club. People who work or play on the waters here are far more likely to be familiar with Three Mile Harbor, and so the change to our tide chart.

    Promised Land remains a place name, however, at least for us locals, and if you really want to know what the tide will be doing there, you can just subtract about a half hour for an approximate time.

    As it neared 8:30 p.m. on a recent Sunday night, Mary and I, as is our wont these days, talked of the time that remains to us, and she wondered, in that connection, what places I might really like to see and what things I might really want to do.

    “What do I really want to do now? Or in the future?” I said.

    “Both,” she said, “but let’s begin with now.”

    “As for now, rather than look at the big picture, I’d really like to watch the Steelers game!” I said.

    I don’t think it was quite the answer she’d expected, but, without a moment’s hesitation, she said — cheerily, I might add — “Let’s watch the Steelers game then.”

    And so we did — she intermittently, I transfixedly — and it was wonderful. Before the first quarter was over, the Steelers led 21-0, if memory serves, the most points the Bengals had given up in a quarter since Ought 5, or something like that.

    Really, if it weren’t for a couple of plays gone awry this season, the Steelers would be in contention for the Super Bowl again, though perhaps it’s good not to get fat and happy fan-wise, immune to the vagaries of life, whether of the sporting or of the real variety.

    One should remain on one’s toes, on the edge of one’s seat, as a poet said recently on these pages. Pretty soon it’ll be over and you won’t have seen Paree. Not to mention Mastic.

    “Well, I would like to go to Florence and stay in the inn they’ve made of Guido Cavalcanti’s home up on the hill, the Tower of the Beautiful View,” I said.

    “And Mom always said I should see Venice,” said Mary.

    Mention of Venice got me to thinking of the  root canal I’d just undergone. And of life’s exigencies. And so I assured her we’d go to Venice soon, but added that for now the only place I really wanted to go — since it was halftime and I couldn’t keep my eyes open any longer —  was to bed.

    In Nelson Mandela and, closer to home, in Lee Hayes we have examples of moral authority, a persistent strength in the face of injustice, made all the more notable for their refusals to succumb to bitterness.

    There are very few humans who exhibit that charity, that superior strength, which can come out of suffering, but which, in many more instances, can result in resignation or a lust for vengeance.

    Mr. Hayes, when I interviewed him years ago, acknowledged that racism had denied him work, following World War II, in the aviation industry, work for which he was impeccably suited, having been a Tuskegee Airman (bombardier, navigator, pilot).

    Though those racist rebuffs obviously stung, he was not deterred, not cowed. “You do what you got to do,” he said. “I tried so many things — ice plant, warehouse, custodial work, carpentry, building, selling life insurance — if I could make a living, I didn’t care what it was.”

    “The timing wasn’t right,” he summed up when I was about to leave. (This was in 1978.) “Black boys and girls now should be prepared . . . I came along too soon.”

    That he was eventually to be celebrated as one of the Tuskegee Airmen — attention that he welcomed, according to his daughter, Karlys, meant, I suppose, that while Lee Hayes may have been born too soon, thankfully he did not die too soon. Justice, long deferred, was accorded him, as it was to Mandela, another dignified man of moral authority who refused to become embittered and who refused to be cowed.