It’s comforting to me how we scoot along each year marking the calendar by holidays. January is cold and dark, and after the enthusiasm of the New Year wears off, I feel a bit of a letdown. February gets more exciting with my birthday and Valentine’s Day — seeing hearts everywhere makes me smile.

    I’m a big fan of St. Patrick’s Day, even though my family has been in this country for five generations. As spring arrives, everything is a bit brighter and the dreariness of winter is forgotten as we celebrate Mother’s Day and Father’s Day. 

    Mother’s Day is always quite an event. Flowers are sent, shiny jewelry purchased, breakfast is served in bed, and maybe Mom is sent to a spa for the day.  Poor Dad isn’t given the same attention. Father’s Day is often pretty boring. Maybe there’s a barbecue in the backyard, but Dad does the cooking. Most dads I know are given a small simple gift to mark the day. Why does St. Patrick’s Day get a parade and fun hats, but dads get a boring store-bought greeting card for their special day? Why are most Father’s Day cards either blue or brown?

    I know that Father’s Day was a month ago, but it bugs me that dads get so overlooked. I’m not suggesting we get our fathers two ties instead of one to show our love. I’m suggesting that we put some effort into our appreciation. 

    Remember when you were a child and you made your mom or dad a macaroni necklace in art class? The necklace took some effort and multiple steps were involved. Noodles have to be painted and laid out to dry. There’s serious consideration about which yarn color Dad might like best. The macaroni noodles have to be strung with care, and somehow there always seemed to be glue involved, though I can’t figure out why. Macaroni necklaces are a serious commitment, as far as gifts go.

    That effort and consideration somehow disappears as we get older and less creative. We run to the nearest department store to buy dad a shirt or tie or some other lame gift. And we buy a brown or blue greeting card with a sailboat or fish or mountains on the front.

    My mother died at age 29, and so Dad juggled a career in banking along with raising two young children in the ’70s. I might have been the more challenging of the two children, and it probably wasn’t­ easy for Dad to talk about “girl things” with me. But we survived. We did more than that — we flourished. Dad raised us without the benefit of after-care programs or support services for single and/or working families.

    How did he manage the house, laundry, meals, sports, scouts, homework, bath time, and broken bones, all by himself? I’ve asked him many times, especially since I’ve become a mother myself. He says he doesn’t remember. Sometimes I hear myself complaining about how busy I am and I try to shut my mouth and count my blessings. Life isn’t perfect, but you’ve got to play the cards you’re dealt.

    Dad and I are such different people. We have lively political discussions, really dissimilar ways of parenting, and flat-out opposite personalities. Neither one of us will admit it, but people say we’re also the same in many ways. My children will comment, “Grandpa says the same thing!” when they ask me about how they might handle a situation in their lives.

    My dad is a heck of a guy who is sweet, generous, and kind. He’d never describe himself that way, of course. He really doesn’t give himself enough credit. So here I am, telling all of you. My dad is the best! I admire him, even when we don’t agree. He raised my brother and me to have a strong work ethic and to set and meet goals. He was strict, but he loved us and told us so, even when we weren’t so easy to love.

    This year on Father’s Day my dad and I canoed the Peconic River with my two young boys. Next year? We’ll be making macaroni necklaces, of course. I think Dad will like a blue string best.

   I ran into a close relative, my double in some respects, in A.R. Gurney’s “Love Letters” this week.

    I picked up a copy of the play, which comes with “The Golden Age” and “What I Did Last Summer,” at BookHampton after seeing a beguiling Hampton Theatre Company production of his “Black Tie” at the Quogue Community House.

    “He’s got you WASPS taped,” Mary said as the groom’s father’s teenage daughter was sent out on yet another message-delivering mission to the cheeky bride-to-be on another floor of the Lake George motel, an assignment that prompted her to ask the audience, after gathering her breath, if messengers ever got to kill themselves.

    It’s a WASP tradition, at least it’s been my tradition, often not to speak frankly of what matters most — to do “end-arounds,” as I call them, deputizing others to carry my water — or, in the alternative, to write a note or letter when a face-to-face confrontation or phone call is called for — though Mary, who is of a more sanguine nature and less inclined than I toward diffidence, has brought me along wonderfully in this regard: our very rare and resonant differences of opinion having become the stuff of legend.

    But back to Andy Ladd III, the letter-loving letter writer in “Love Letters,” it strikes me as tragic that it is only at the play’s end, after Melissa, his reluctant lifetime correspondent, who often urged him to cut himself free from his beloved form (and from his parents’ and class’s constraints as well), has died, that he finally speaks his heart . . . in a letter of condolence to her mother.

    One — if one is a WASP, though I’m sure we don’t monopolize reticence or politesse — can become too wary of emotion to speak it plain, too enamored of smoothing things out on the page, more wedded to writing than being.

    When we used to visit our family psychologist en masse, and with no little frequency, he would say, hands clasped and smiling, “Ah, the literary Graveses.”

    Funny he, a theater lover, didn’t tell me to go see some A.R. Gurney plays, or to read them. Maybe he thought they’d be superfluous. I don’t even need a script!

    This is all by way of saying that I, who also was a member of the same frat and secret society as Andy at Yale, escaped his fate, eventually mindful, as Don Quixote said to Sancho (he did, didn’t he?), that “faint heart never won fair lady.”

   Having spent seven days on a 41-foot ketch this summer after a long hiatus doesn’t qualify me to judge the way boats of this kind now use electronic devices, but I know what I like when it comes to sailing: the taut feel at a tiller or wheel when a boat is in perfect balance as you tack to windward on a beautiful day in a breeze that is almost stiff. It’s that simple.

    Off for a week in the Massachusetts waters of Buzzards Bay, our manifest included two parents, two kids, and two grandparents: family. The weather held, with lots of sun and a healthy downpour one day that gave us a chance to have lunch ashore in an old inn. For the most part, though, we cooked aboard, being well-provisioned and finding a well-equipped galley.

    The kids, 8 and 11, had gone sailing on their parents’ small boat since they were toddlers and had been deemed ready for something more exciting. One of their parents is a licensed captain, the other a mate. They plotted our courses and knew how to handle the sails when late afternoon winds started gusting to 20 knots. They also had plotted a list of nautical things for the kids to learn, from terminology like “coming about” to simple knots, like a half-hitch. On the last day of the trip, the kids earned homemade “able seaman” certificates and an onshore stop for ice cream.

    No boat of any size goes into Buzzards Bay without a global positioning device anymore. A GPS tells you where you are and shows you how to find where you are going. Mechanical, electrical wind indicators are common, too. Not only was there an indicator atop the main mast, but we had a dial at the helm that showed where on the compass the wind was coming from, as well as the boat’s trajectory.

    If the direction of the wind waswasn’t changing much, you could steer the boat merely by watching the compass. The kids did so easily and let the grown-ups decide when to tack or change course. Oh, yes. I almost forgot to mention the autopilot, which does the steering for you if you want it to. An autopilot is all very practical if you don’t have to change course much or if you need to go below for some reason or other.

    Now, I know I’m going to take heat for repeating what a woman I know — who has done a lot of sailing — had to say when I described how those at the helm relied on these electronic devices more often than not. “For the kids,” she said, “it’s like a video game.”

    Okay, she conceded, a video game with the wind in their hair.

    At an anchorage in a pleasant little harbor at Quisset, however, we got a good look one morning before setting off across the bay at kids learning to sail in Optimist prams. Their boats had to be bailed, the sails had to be hauled up, and then it was up to each of them to keep the boat upright, although camp counselors in separate boats were nearby. I am sure the difference between what our kids did aboard the ketch and the kind of small-boat sailing we watched must have sunk in.

    Did the kids have fun? Of course. Did I? Of course. But I was glad I brought along a book.

   I am often complimented on my ability to find the good in situations, and have even been told that my positive thoughts can be borderline annoying.

    I have been challenged lately to stay in a place of gratitude, but thankfully, I have been able to do so while feeling like I’m dodging bullets at times. As an example, while enjoying the lush green vegetation on my daily commute, out from it leaps a tiny, tan, freckled baby deer. After slamming on the brakes and taking a moment to remember to breathe, I felt grateful that it had passed safely just a few feet in front of my car and I returned to my scenic drive.

    Being ungrateful or unappreciative of the good that surrounds me is not an option, it’s a matter of survival. Balance is necessary more than ever before, but finding balance has been a challenge, too, especially Monday through Wednesday in the newspaper business. Luckily, I was blessed last week with an early-ending Harbor Committee meeting that allowed me a two-hour dinner break during which I did not eat, but instead danced to samba and African drumming on the beach.

    The following morning, my boss assigned me the task of covering a ladybug catch-and-release program at Quail Hill Farm in Amagansett, where I took pictures of adorable children and organic vegetation while strolling on land that has been protected by the Peconic Land Trust. I was so grateful for the opportunity to experience the grounds and to chat with Scott Chaskey, the farm’s director.  I thanked him for what he has created for the community and for ensuring a source of local, organic, non-genetically-engineered food and simultaneously helping to protect our land and water.

    Last Thursday, The Star’s arts editor asked me to attend an Inda Eaton concert and interview the local musician, who has quickly become one of my favorites. As Inda was joined onstage by several other amazing musicians, I looked at my pad, pen, and camera on the banister of the Talkhouse dance floor and felt an overwhelming sense of gratitude. . . . “I am working right now,” I thought, and probably even said aloud, as I do talk to myself regularly.

    I listened to Ms. Eaton’s new CD, “Go West” the next day, on one of my recent and frequent three-hour trips to the hospital to visit my father and felt comfort in her lyrics. “Rest your head,” “better days,” and “in the arms of my hometown for a while.”

    Music has become an even bigger part of my well-being lately, and I am hoping it will also help my father, who has been hospitalized for weeks and is now on a ventilator, unresponsive. I played Frank Sinatra and Tony Bennett, two of his favorites, in the hospital room on Friday, hoping it would help to wake him.

    Some of my family members said that my father’s legs moved the most when the song “In the Mood” was played, a song that usually results in a solo swing-dance performance by my parents at family gatherings. I hope that once again my parents’ amazing dance steps will bring them — and those who watch them — joy, as they have since their Copa Cabana dating days. I have inherited their love of music and dancing. Mine has taken place mostly to percussion on the beach. During those moments, dancing in the daylight hours, through the always amazing Sagg Main sunset, and into the night, my pain is relieved.

    The drummers I have met on Monday nights, and all types of musicians that I have come to know, have been a great gift to me. Their concerts, their hugs and chitchatting, and even offers to play live for my father have increased my awe of the East End music community.

    Music is the most effective way to shift my mood and thoughts when they are heading in the wrong direction. The car radio “spiritual D.J.” has been on task too, with uplifting choices and sometimes just a sign that all is as it should be.

    With the trauma of my father’s illness, a newfound level of gratitude has also emerged from everyday occurrences — my cat purring next to me and the feeling of each his four little paws touching me. Hugs from friends have been a gift, as has each comment and “like” on my Facebook postings and prayer requests. Along with my incredible family throughout the country, who come together and support each other in such a beautiful way, the music and social media communities have become another type of family that I can count on for soul repair when I feel wounded.

    Shelter Island has also been a blessing to me, from the beauty of the island itself to the smiling faces of ferry workers who welcome me on and off the boat each day. My new cabin on the island brings the music of birds, frogs, and insects. I can retreat from a day’s hospital visit filled with bacteria, tubes, wires, monitors, beeping noises, and visuals that include my deeply saddened and worried mother kissing my unresponsive father on the head. I return to a paradise of sorts, with blue water, greenery, vegetables from an organic farm, and a new restaurant that now brings many of my favorite musicians to play just a mile or two from home. How can I not be grateful?

    Carrie Ann Salvi is a reporter at The Star whose beats include the local music scene.

I should apologize at the outset to the man my kids and I call Wrong-Way Guy, but we’re kind of obsessed.

Maybe you’ve seen him — a white-haired man dressed all in black, who rapidly walks along Main Street in East Hampton with his sneakers treading on the white line at the side of the road? Leaning forward with his arms held just so, he looks as if he is ready for a fight or about to swat an oncoming car right out of the way. Weekday mornings, as we drive to school, keeping an eye out for Wrong-Way Guy is a way to pass the time. 

For a while we had a more ordinary game involving work and municipal vehicles. Electric trucks, tree trucks, and school buses, for example, were 5 points. A cesspool truck earned whoever spotted it 20 points. The wildcard was Ken Sacks, the father of one of the kids’ schoolmates behind the wheel of his old car. He was worth 50 points, but we only saw him once. Interest in the game waned, and watching for local characters took its place.

When I was young we would keep an eye out for Snow, an older man who walked the streets around Bridgehampton. I remember listening to WLNG one night during a blizzard. A caller phoned the radio station to say that it “looked like Snow!” was on the street. Not understanding, the host went along: “Yes, it sure does look like snow.”

“No, I mean, Snow! The man!” she said.

I never knew Snow’s real name. I think he might have been a Bridgehampton migrant worker who came for the potato crop and stayed. Someone knows, I’m sure, and I am going to make the effort to find out about him one day.

Captain Shipwreck was Amagansett’s answer to Snow, and of him I know somewhat more. His name was Richard Halliday, and until about 1980 he could be seen walking on Montauk Highway between his house on Oak Lane and Vinnie’s Barbershop wearing a striped engineer’s cap and, most days, hip boots. “Cappy Dick!” my teenaged friends and I would yell as we passed by in our cars.

Halliday was known as Captain Shipwreck after a series of misadventures at sea, including a swordfish trip that ended on the rocks at Montauk and the day a trawler sank from under him off Block Island. 

One winter, he spent more than a week anchored on the east side of Gardiner’s Island after his dragger’s engine wouldn’t start. He stayed there until his food and coal for heating the cabin ran out. Then he pulled anchor and began to drift. His boat was eventually spotted, and he was taken to shore. He died in 1981, and Amagansett seemed a lot duller.

An architect friend who lives in Sag Harbor shares my admiration for local figures. More than once, he has told me of his hope that someday he could join their ranks and wander into the village in his bathrobe to buy the morning paper. I tell him it’s a fine thing to aspire to.

   When I solicited Sinead FitzGibbon’s advice as to a lower abdominal strain that’s annoyed me for a while and has kept me off the tennis courts, she, a long-distance athlete for all seasons, said, “Take up golf.”

    Taken aback, I said, with as much finality as a diffident sportswriter could muster, “Never.” Which reminded her of her 82-year-old father, who had said when she made the same suggestion to him, ‘I’ll play golf when I get old.’ ”

    Now that’s the spirit! It’s not that I dislike golf . . . well yes I do. It is intriguing, yes, and, yes, it is fiendishly difficult, and thus a beguiling challenge, but I think the benefits, in the form of those well-publicized euphoric moments when the ball takes flight and lands where you want it to, far outweigh the costs in terms of the suffering one must endure.

    Besides, in golf you’re supposed to suffer in silence, take the slings and arrows in gentlemanly stride rather than rail at Fate and sling your irons arrowlike into the woods. One must, contrariwise, behave honorably, be courteous, and play by the rules. To do so builds character. What was it Falstaff said about honor? “Who hath it died a Wednesday”? Of course he was treating of risking one’s life on the battlefield, rather than self-destructing on a golf course, but I think there’s a connection. Who hath character shot 30-over on a Wednesday.

    And don’t pretend such woeful imperfection, such egregious falling short of the mark over the course of a four-hour round — for which you’ve laid out good money — doesn’t gnaw at the vitals. Okay, perhaps you have derived some pleasure, you’ve hit some shots of the sort they say keep you coming back. In the end, though, it’s a will-o’-the-wisp, a game for masochists in loud clothing.

    Now tennis on the other hand. Ah, tennis. A game that offers the joy of kicking butt (read reveling in the suffering of others), the antipathy that attends the invariable arguments as to whether the ball was in or out, and (for nine months a year) the ecstasy derived from bouncing undeleted expletives off resonant walls. Sort of like CERN in that respect.

    Tennis is a game for vicious people wearing white. I yearn to get back to it. In the meantime I must content myself with cheating at backgammon.

   In the end, the catbird won the battle of the blueberries.

   For whatever unknown-to-me confluence of meteorological circumstances, 2012 has shaped up to be a great year for the native high-bush blueberry bushes that grow at the edge of the swamps near our house. I noticed the pale-green young ber­ries late last month, and watched closely as they neared ripeness.

    So too did a catbird or two, which I could hear unseen in the brush issuing warning cries when I lingered near the patch. The calls seemed to say, “Be gone. These are mine.”

    Time being what it is in the busy season at The Star, and with three children at home, there was little chance I would get to the berries. Yet one morning before the day got too hot, I put on long sleeves and boots and picked about half a pint’s worth. I put my precious haul on the kitchen counter, a mistake, because I had to shoo off Lisa as she reached for a handful.

    Regular readers may remember that it is about this time of the year that I begin to write about making jams, jellies, or preserves. Long ago, as I have said before, I gave up on making large batches of any one variety. Instead, I try to put up a jar or three of what comes into season as it comes into season.

    So far, the shelf reserved for such things has a couple of jars of strawberry jam on it and a couple of sweet-pickled summer squash. Later will come beach plum jelly, wild grape jelly, black raspberry preserves, and, later still, canned tomatoes.

    The blueberries, though I managed to cook them into jam on Saturday morning before shuttling off our eldest child to camp, will not take their place on the shelf. The few ounces of goodness they produced when boiled up with an equal weight of sugar are destined for immediate consumption.There will be none to follow.

    By the time I made it back to the patch to pick anew, the catbird had stripped the branches bare.

   “Shave and a Haircut, Two Bits.” If that musical ditty doesn’t immediately ring a bell, I’ll tell you it is, or perhaps more properly used to be, a familiar (and jocular) ending for songs, particularly in bluegrass. I hadn’t thought of it for years, but I couldn’t get it out of my head for a couple of days recently, after making an amusing bungle of an attempt to make a simple appointment to have my hair cut.

    You know how people used to say Sag Harbor was once the bar capital of America, with more gin mills per capita —supposedly, anyway, and I suspect many port towns once made this boast —than any other place? I think we can now legitimately retitle it the salon capital of the South Fork.

    About two months ago, l had my hair done there by a woman named Jackie in a Main Street salon. I liked what she did, and it was time to do it again. My daughter-in-law had given me the phone number originally, but neither of us could remember it or find it again.

    I thought the place was called Salon 67 (it’s actually Salon 66) but couldn’t locate a listing in the phone book, either. So, naturally, I tried information. Quickly given a number, I called and made an appointment. The polite woman who answered the phone said her name was Irina, but didn’t comment when I asked to have an appointment with Jackie. (Or so I thought.)

    A few days later, something unexpectedly came up, and I found it necessary to reschedule my appointment. Once again, I had neglected to write down the phone number, and I tried information again. But this time, the operator insisted no Salon 67 or 66 was listed anywhere on the South Fork. Hm.

    Just why the talented Jackie doesn’t have a listed phone number for Salon 66 is still unclear to me; has time passed me by, and are land lines becoming a thing of the past? I gather she relies on her cellphone and business cards and is doing quite well. She has set up her shop where Marty’s Barbershop used to be —but that didn’t help me find the number.

    Now, the circulation manager at The Star knows a few Internet tricks. She didn’t tell how she ferreted out Jackie’s last name and cellphone number, but that’s exactly what she did. When I called to make a new appointment, however, Jackie was surprised: No, she said, I had not called previously or made any appointment at Salon 66.

    So whom had I called?

    I was both mystified and bemused.

    Turns out that there are more small salons in Sag Harbor than in East Hampton, Bridgehampton, or South­ampton. One of them was expecting me on Thursday at 4, but . . . which one? Hoping to find the answer, I searched the Web and came up with too many to call: Fingers Fine Haircutting, the Style Bar, the Harbor Salon, Studio 99, the Quibaldi Salon, and at least four others. I anxiously wondered what Irina would think when I rudely didn’t appear for my appointment.

    Then, to my surprise, my phone rang the day before the Thursday on which I had inadvertently made an appointment in the wrong place. It was Salon Xavier calling to confirm. Oh, dear: I owed them an explanation.

    When I finally got to Jackie’s, we had a good laugh.

   Summer is over. For me, anyway. I’ve been at The Star for June and July as an intern from the University of Colorado at Boulder. I don’t have to tell you that The Star is a terrific publication — you’ve probably been reading it for years.

    The stories are well researched by dedicated journalists who are serious about their craft. The newspaper that comes out each week is the beautiful result of a few dozen people and their pursuit of excellence. It’s been an honor to be a small part of that unit this summer.

    This internship has certainly taught me quite a bit about the journalism industry. The Star is in a charming old building with dozens of awards lining its walls. The editors have taken my reasonably written stories and other work and they’ve smoothed out the rough edges. Some of my stories needed more buffing than smoothing. I couldn’t have found a better place to learn and grow as I continue to improve my skills as a journalist. If I only had more time here.

   But, it’s back to my real life. I’ve been working part time on a master’s degree in journalism while I’ve worked full time at the university as an academic adviser for undergrads. I love working with young people — helping them navigate their way through college and majors, careers, and their social lives — many of them away from home for the first time.

    This summer gave me something I haven’t had in a long time, the thing I’ve wanted most in the world. This summer gave me time. I’ve had time to visit friends and family and introduce my children to dozens of people who are important in my life. I’ve had time at the beach. We’ve spent oodles of time wandering around Montauk while both of my boys searched for the perfect necklace to bring home. I’ve had time to just watch my children enjoy themselves without schedules of any kind.

    They’ve participated in sand castle contests, baseball games on the beach, a trip to the Lighthouse. They’ve been to an outdoor movie in Amagansett, made dozens of trips to Ben and Jerry’s, played some mini-golf, enrolled in surf camp, and swam pretty much every single day. Their usually blonde hair has been bleached from chlorine, sun, and the sea. Their little bodies are brown despite the tremendous amounts of sunscreen we’ve applied.

    Coming all the way to Montauk from Colorado for the summer has been quite an adventure. Throw two young boys into the mix and it makes things even more interesting. I asked my 9-year-old to describe his summer in one word.

    “Amazing,” he responded with shining eyes and a smile.

    Tomorrow we start our journey home. My oldest son starts fourth grade on Aug. 15 and the little guy starts kindergarten a week later. I’ll go back to work at the university. And life will go back to normal for a while. For a while.

    This summer, the internship, the entire experience really, have given me a lot to think about. I love the work ethic of the folks at The Star and of New Yorkers in general and I really love to write. Introducing my children to a summer at the beach and the wonders of searching for beautiful treasures from the sea has been fantastic.

    Once I get home, I’ll start trying to figure out if there is a way for me to write more, have summers off, and bring the boys back for summers on the East End once in a while. Lofty? Sure it is. That’s okay, though. I love a challenge.

 Kathy Noonan, an intern at The Star this summer, lives in Boulder, Colo.

    Invited out the other day onto the water, where I hardly ever go, preferring to take in the views rather than hang over the rail, I ran to CVS to buy some Sea Bands, thinking they might help.

    I shouldn’t have worried, for the cruise to and from Coecles Harbor on a restored wooden prewar cabin cruiser was marvelously placid, the adults convivial, and the children beguiling.

    I had bought a good bottle of California pinot noir for Ed Gifford, whose 51st birthday we were celebrating, though I’m afraid I drank most of it. At one point, I reported that my eldest daughter had, after spending a number of years in suburban Pittsburgh schools, proved to be an immediate hit when she moved back for the second half of her senior high school year.

    “Emily had been a cheerleader in Pittsburgh — they were raucous,” I said. “She livened things up here with new cheers.” 

    Whereupon everyone who’d been listening became constricted with uncontrollable laughter. Usually quick on the uptake, I waited until they came up for air and had wiped away their tears before asking what had been so riotously funny.

    “We thought you said, ‘Nude cheers’!” one of them said. “It wasn’t just me — she heard it that way too.”

     Then I began to laugh. “That’s the funniest thing I ever said,” I said.

    “But you didn’t say it,” said the captain.

    “Oh yes I did,” I said. “It just needed some fleshing out.”

    Later, I told Emily about it as we talked on the phone. “I had them rolling in the aisles, Emily.”

    “I’m not surprised, Dad. You’re a clown.”

    “ ‘How ill white hairs become a fool and a jester!’ ”

    “I didn’t say that.”

    “Prince Hal did. To Falstaff in Henry IV, Part 1. I’ve begun to read all of Shakespeare’s plays. They’re on my bucket list.”

    “Well, anyway, that was very funny. And did you also tell them I was the naked high-dive champion at the Maidstone Club?”