It used to be that if you called someone and he didn’t answer (and there was no answering machine), you could almost see the silence yawning at you. You placed yourself in that imaginary office or kitchen or bedroom and conjured either a void or something going on that was mysteriously alluring and that you were somehow being excluded from. Your wife, friend, or lover might be betraying you in that silence, but there was always an anchor, a place to which the ringing belonged.

Now the landline is going the way of the old Royal typewriter, thank-you notes written in cursive, and the un-air-conditioned car. Remember the smell of the ocean after driving for hours through choked highways to get to the beach on a summer’s weekend in a sweltering sedan? Now cars are like spoiled trust fund babies who don’t need anyone. The music is blasting, everyone is on a smartphone or iPad, and nobody even needs the sea.

The old rotary, which looked like a miniature cash register, the Princess, the touch-tone, even the battery-powered handset that you could walk around the house with are all victims of unplanned obsolescence — their half-lives foreshortened by Moore’s Law and the tsunami of cellphone technology that followed in its wake.

But the death of the landline is creating a revolution that was prefigured by developments in relativity theory and quantum mechanics many decades before. The idea of quantum entanglement is predicated on the notion that a particle can be in two places at the same time. A quantum universe, if such a phenomenon could exist not only among subatomic particles but human bodies, would give new meaning to adultery and cheating since in theory a certain equanimity would mitigate against favoring one body over the other. Promiscuousness itself would be rendered fairly benign as we would all inhabit a universe of multiversic perversity! 

Pretty soon few if any telephones will be ringing in a place. A phone number will be assigned to a person but that person will be the equivalent of a moving particle. In the past you could envision the geographic spot in which the phone was ringing. In the not too distant future, it will be literally a Pandora’s box in terms of possibilities. I might be persuaded you were picking up in Paris, London, or Moscow when you were, in reality, en route to Nice, Liverpool, or Leningrad. 

The phone, which was a creature of Newtonian l9th-century technology, has finally come into its own. The old version plugged into a jack in the wall created the illusion that space could exist alone. There was something stoic and intransigent about these anachronisms. Now the possessor of his cell truly navigates the space-time continuum, a moving body receiving electronic signals from other moving bodies whose positions are continually changing and whose final resting spot (if such a condition truly exists) is ultimately dependent on the motion of other bodies. 

I might, for instance, be drawn by the inertial force of an economic windfall sucking at me with the magnetism of a black hole. Its gravitational spell might be preventing me from making a desired appearance in London. At the same time I could be involved in a conversation with a new lover while catching a plane at Heathrow for the South of France. 

And where is the admissions office for the online university I have just enrolled in? Not even on the cellphone of a human being, but in the robotic intelligence digitally vetting my application in the ether of cyberspace.

Francis Levy, a Wainscott resident, is the author of the comic novels “Erotomania: A Romance” and “Seven Days in Rio” and of the blog The Screaming Pope.

On April 12, President Obama expanded the national park system to include the historic Sewall-Belmont House in Washington, D.C. In designating the site as the Belmont-Paul Women’s Equality National Monument, the president honored the trailblazers who fought for women’s rights. President Obama described the site’s significance as “a hotbed of activism, a centerpiece for the struggle for equality, a monument to a fight not just for women’s equality but, ultimately, for equality for everybody.”

The designation of a new national monument is particularly meaningful this year as we celebrate the 100th anniversary of the date President Woodrow Wilson signed the act that established the National Park Service. It is a powerful signal that after 100 years, the park service continues to be a vital and evolving agency. Since its establishment, the national park system has expanded area by area, each new site adding integrity to the whole — another thread, another color, woven into the tapestry that is the story of this diverse nation. 

The fight for women’s suffrage is an important piece of the American story told by the park service, but there are more chapters to write, more stories to tell. Women’s rights and the park service have seen much progress in the last 100 years, but there is still work to do. President Obama’s designation of the Belmont-Paul Women’s Equality National Monument is a step in the right direction.

Today, just nine out of more than 400 national parks have been established specifically to tell the story of women’s history in America. The Belmont-Paul monument is a terrific addition to this small number. I hope to see this number grow throughout my lifetime.

As a former National Park Service employee, I’m proud to support a park system that is growing to more accurately reflect the diverse range of stories and places in American history. We need to share the stories and struggles of past generations so that future generations understand our shared history.

It is essential that this president and those who follow him continue to use their authority to add new, significant areas that, in the words of the park service’s 1970 General Authorities Act, are “cumulative expressions of a single national heritage.” Alice Paul, Alva Belmont, and the National Women’s Party fought passionately and tirelessly for equal rights for women. The history of their fight will now be preserved in perpetuity by the National Park Service.

The Belmont-Paul Women’s Equality National Monument will offer visitors the opportunity to explore the nation’s most complete collection of suffrage and equal rights movement artifacts: the documents, banners, sashes, and lobbying cards that help tell the story of women in America. Preserving these historical and cultural treasures is a gift from one generation to the next. I believe with all my heart that our children and their children will, in the words of Stephen Mather, the first director of the park service, “become better citizen[s] with a keener appreciation of the privilege of living here” once they have spent time in national parks.

Each of us can and should find our own meaning in the national parks. From the glorious peaks and canyons to the sorrow-filled Trail of Tears, the authentic voices of our natural and cultural treasures speak to each of us individually. We need to make sure the National Park Service continues to grow to reflect the breadth and diversity of the American experience.

Jackie Lowey is a member of the Coalition to Protect America’s National Parks. She lives in East Hampton and serves on the East Hampton School Board.

I woke up from a nightmare with the television on. An evangelist was hustling cash. This man had been defrocked by his own church. He had cried on his television show asking for forgiveness for consorting with a prostitute. Then another prostitute appeared. His redemption slow­ed. But he sees himself redeemed by his Lord. And needs cash now.

There are different views on prostitution. Some see it as an evil, some as a victimless crime. I think it depends where the pimp in his sharp suit stands. After all, the televangelist in his midnight maneuver is holding a Holy Bible. And that’s where I learned at 5 years of age of prostitution; I don’t know about you.

The defrocked preacher’s son has of late taken over his father’s ministry. He is taking in $100 from Jay in New York and $300 from Mary in Maryland, who is asking for prayers. The more one gives, the more prayers said, apparently.

It was Emerson who wrote, “The louder he talked of his honor, the faster we counted our spoons.”

Once I was sitting at a picnic table in a flyover state with my family, including a man who was also a close friend. We were talking about ranch riding horses (good and ill-tempered), and then he said to me, out of the indigo, “My father and grandfather were members of the K.K.K. in Indiana.”

I was eating franks and beans at the time and nearly choked on a piece of a Nathan’s hot dog from Brooklyn. “They lived outside of Indianapolis but traveled to burn down the houses of Catholics and Jews, to drive them out of other neighborhoods,” he said.

I pushed my food away.

I tried to have a good thought. I thought of a song by an Irish band, the Pogues. They sing, “The boys of the N.Y.P.D. choir were singing ‘Galway Bay,’ and the bells were ringing out for Christmas Day.” New York values, maybe.

As I walked back to our room with my wife past the saguaros so familiar from the films of my youth in which cowboys killed Indians, and kids in dark theaters cheered and had been taught nothing up to that point about a Trail of Tears, I was feeling, as Joni Mitchell once sang, “hollow like a cactus tree.”

This brings me years forward to today. The presidential election looms. (As one always seems to be in an endless spin cycle.) The candidates are shrill and, frankly, though some are very sharp individuals, sound idiotic. (This is because their handlers have told them to speak the language of the people.)

I saw in my newspaper the other day photographs made by Peter van Agtmael of members of the Ku Klux Klan. Though I am a Long Islander by birth and temperament, I live at present 12 miles as the raven flies from the White House in Maryland below the Mason-Dixon Line. The photographer nailed these robe-wearers hiding in their masks in houses and barns in Maryland and Tennessee. These are smallish states. One photo van Agtmael made was of a picture of Anne Frank that was tacked to a K.K.K. wall nearer to me than I would like that had this caption: “Hide and Seek Champion, 1942-1944.”

I rushed to a bathroom and puked.

Who stands for “truth, justice, and the American way”?

And what now is the American way?

Dan Marsh has been a “Guestwords” contributor since 2003. His writing has appeared in Newsday and Rolling Stone.

You may have heard of the Sagaponack Village mayor, but let me tell you about the unofficial mayor of Sagg Main Beach.

Every year, from dawn until dusk, Lester Jary Elliston patrols the sands and waters of that beach. In fact, Lester stops by the ocean almost every single day of the year, and he is careful to take both a sunrise and a sunset photo of the beach. While he is there, he feeds an adopted seagull, Harvey.

Some days, the temperature dips below 30 degrees and the wind whips up in a steady breeze, making tears come to the eyes. On those days, Lester makes a perfunctory visit and then is on his way. On other days, there is a hint of spring, with 60-degree weather and a strong steady sun, and on those days, Lester lingers longer and dreams of summer.

Once May hits, the beach mayor shows up early in the morning with two matching beach chairs, an umbrella, several coolers, a supply of water, and maybe a matching beach outfit. Lester takes his job seriously and wants to look the part. He talks to anyone who enters the sand, introducing himself and finding out his or her purpose for being there for the day. He finds out names, the ports that they hail from, the names of their fluffy little dogs, and maybe their political and religious affiliations as well.

If a local issue is being voted on at a town meeting, Lester polls each individual and makes sure everyone knows how the results of the polls are stacking up. He speaks with lawyers and farmers alike. He is especially close to the lifeguards and beach attendants when they take position after the unofficial beginning of the summer, Memorial Day weekend. 

As a result of his daily rounds, Lester is frequently invited to fancy parties at oceanfront homes that only the people on the A-list expect to attend. He duly does his duty and shows up right on schedule to partake of the catered goodies. Sometimes he has to juggle three or more parties.

Back to his duties and obligations, Lester makes sure that everyone is aware of the location and treatment of the restrooms, when the ice cream truck will arrive, the strength of the surf, and the variations and dangers of the riptide currents. He makes sure that all attend the Dan’s Papers Kite Fly celebration in August and sign up for the annual caricatures. In tribute, he has an entire room devoted to these drawings of himself and his daughter, dated chronologically, with side art depicting whatever was foremost in his family’s mind in the highlighted year.

Some years there are exciting events to celebrate, such as the upcoming marriage of the daughter of a friend. Other years, there is the news of cancer or disease striking an acquaintance, or a beachgoer collapses on the beach and dies of a heart attack while the local E.M.T.s are valiantly attempting to save him.

Each of these episodes has been taken to heart by Lester, the beach mayor, as he quietly muses about the events and wonders if he could have been of more help in preventing a tragedy. He takes his job seriously and is a constant reminder that someone important is watching the fort, noticing and reporting problems, and forestalling any accidents, losses, or missteps by the many people who blithely dare to walk the sands of Sagg Main Beach.

Alice R. Martin grew up in Sagaponack and has roots there dating to the 17th century. She now lives in Riverhead.

The back row of the East Hampton movie theater is kinda like your own studio apartment with a wide-screen TV on gym candy. Not only can you feast undisturbed in stocking feet on contraband Cracker Jacks, Raisinets, Strawberry Twizzlers, and a large can of Arizona green iced tea with a foot-long veggie delight made fresh by Joe the deli manager at Stop & Shop, but if the movie’s boring, you can nod out, if the movie’s romantic, you can make out, and if the movie sucks, you can sneak out without someone behind barking “Down in front!” 

But the night I caught “Birdman,” none of those three were the issue, except that the audio disturbed me — not its poor quality, but the faint click I heard in Riggan Thomson’s opening monologue, very obvious for someone who has edited video projects for 30 years.

Three months would pass until the East Hampton Library had a DVD of “Birdman,” so I rushed to get my free three-day rental and slowed it down where I found the audio edit, a section of monologue that was purposely cut out by the director. Curious, I called an ex-sweetheart turned actress in Sherman Oaks to get a copy of the first page of the script.

“Just the first page?” she asked.

“I may have unearthed the biggest cover-up since the grassy knoll,” I shot back.

And, as I thought, the original scripted monologue was much different from what was seen in the Academy Award-winning film:

FADE IN:

INT. RIGGAN’S DRESSING ROOM — THEATER — DAY

We slowly tilt up to discover the back of Riggan Thomson (55). He is in the proper Lotus position, dressed only in tight white briefs, and he appears to be meditating deeply . . .

MAN (V.O.)

Smells like — Rawlings, five ounce, made in Costa Rica, 108 double stitches, raised seams, white leather base — balls.

A slight twitch in Riggan’s neck.

MAN (V.O.)

We don’t belong in this . . .

Unaware of the passion for baseball in America and in his leading actor, who had a clause written into his “Batman” contract that should the Pittsburgh Pirates make the playoffs, filming would cease for the duration, the director struck out in red ballpoint ink all baseball references in the original script. 

Anyone who has ever run through a ball field of freshly cut grass, rubbed Mazola oil in the palm of his Wilson glove, connected on the sweet spot of a 33-inch wood Louisville Slugger, or jumped up and down with a bunch of equally minded guys atop a 15-inch clay mound after a hard-fought game, knows there is no scent as intoxicating, as euphoric, as orgasmic as the smell of a little white ball made in Costa Rica.

I love baseball.

Long before my gold Royce Union five-speed bike with banana seat and sissy bar, way before my first broken heart on 27th Street in Astoria, and ages before my four amazing kids entered my life, there was one friend always by my side, always with a smile, forever a friend, and still a friend today: baseball.

My earliest recollection of smells-like-balls occurred at 5 when my brother pointed at the TV, said the blond-haired, left-handed pitcher standing majestically on the mound for the New York Yankees was from Astoria, then lobbed to me a brand-new white piece of heaven he bought at E.J. Korvette’s. I was addicted for life to the smell and game of baseball, hoarding every penny in a Hellmann’s mayonnaise jar, collecting every Green Stamp my mother brought home from grocery shopping, until I’d saved enough and had filled Green Stamp books for a catcher’s or outfielder’s mitt, another wood baseball bat, or another Rawlings leather baseball with 108 red stitches. 

Richie Shubert stood more than 6 feet, but on top of the mound he could be the center for the New York Knicks, only meaner. William Cullen Bryant High School was Long Island City High School’s nemesis, and on a balmy April day in ’73 a nail-biter game was in progress as our ace pitcher, John Dinkelmeyer, proved a formidable warrior, mowing down batter after batter after batter with his 12 to 6 o’clock curve. I should know, I was his catcher and gloated over every missed pitch.

At 18, Richie threw upward of 90 miles per hour, and as a lefty was scouted by every major league team. When I stepped up to the plate in my seventh batting position, five of the preceding batters having struck out, I thought, “Make contact.” I knew he would throw heat, so I swung at the first pitch, sending a major league mile-high pop to the right side, foul, the first baseman missing it by inches. Surprised, I felt confident he’d throw me another fastball, and remember somehow making it to first base, a single.

Richie was drafted two months later in the second round by the Texas Rangers and John by the Detroit Tigers. It felt nice to catch with and bat against major league players.

I love baseball. 

My first full-time job was with Exxon on Sixth Avenue, where I quickly befriended co-workers around the world, getting invites every weekend, but none friendlier than Roger in Hamilton, Bermuda, where I traveled almost every month, thanks to my girlfriend, a Northeast Airlines flight attendant named Judy, who made me her “buddy” for free travel. I would sleep on Roger’s couch in a pink stucco house in Devonshire Parish surrounded by the smell of hibiscus. 

Carlsberg Elephant beer, Long Island iced teas, and dancing all night at Disco 40 on Front Street were my evening passions, but during the day I made friends playing catch, hitting fungoes, and shagging flies with guys I would never see again on ball fields across Bermuda.

I love baseball.

My mother was near death when she aspirated while eating breakfast minutes after general anesthesia from knee replacement at the Hospital for Special Surgery on East 17th Street, but as in the scene in which Adrian whispers “Win” to her husband, Rocky, she pulled me close and similarly whispered, “Go try out again for the Yankees, Frankie. You’ll make it this time.” 

Sadly, I was not the 23-year-old who’d tried out for the Yankees at Yankee Stadium 23 years earlier, but rather 46.

A baseball field is serene, temple-like, sacred, void of outside influences of everyday life — kind of like its own bubble, similar to Biosphere 2. Pick up a baseball anywhere in the world, have a catch, and you’ll immediately make a friend regardless of color, language, religion, gender, or which side of the aisle he votes.

Albert Einstein said, “I don’t know how World War III will be fought, but I know how World War IV will be fought — sticks and stones.” But when I searched the dark web for his exact phrasing, I stumbled onto Columbia University’s applied physics classified files, where I discovered words scribbled by “AE” on the back of a Topps Mickey Mantle rookie card. It read in part, “WWIV will be fought on a baseball diamond of 90 ft squared using wooden bats and leather balls (bd(90ft)squared + bt + bl = WW4).”

If the enemies of the world discovered the magic of the little white ball, perhaps the world would be a more peaceful place.

And now my son Paul pitches for the high school team, forcing me for an hour every day to our backyard, where he climbs his improvised mound constructed with pressure-treated 2-by-8s from Riverhead Building Supply to perfect his good heater and better splitter, hoping to improve his deuce (curve) at U.C.L.A. baseball camp in July.

He loves baseball.

So the next time you take out a free three-day DVD rental of “Birdman” from the East Hampton Library, listen close, real close, for the faint click during Riggan Thomson’s opening monologue, and you’ll know the secret behind smells-like-balls.

Regrettably though, you won’t see me anytime soon checking out movies or CDs or books or the must-see “Mork & Mindy: The Complete Second Season” at the library, as they blocked my privileges. I owe $14 in late fees.

Frank Vespe, a regular “Guestwords” contributor, lives in Springs.

The Book of Ruthie

She is there sitting on my shoulder. She is there every Passover, scrunched in the folds of a damp dish towel thrown over my shoulder. She is shrouded in the moist cloth between folds of fabric that hold my memories.

Does she hear my grandsons chopping the nuts? Chop, chop, chop. Can she see me measure the matzo meal into the beaten egg whites? Do the airy spheres of fluff that float in the soup resemble the ones she made? Do the steamy vapors of the chicken soup, the magic elixir of Jewish life, rise up to meet her?

She comes to life for me in those steaming vapors of boiling soup. An unassuming, simple woman, small in stature but huge in heart, she follows me around the table. I set down a plate, stand up a goblet, lay down a book for the service at each chair. She will be with me when it is my turn to read. She is only there for me, for no one else knows her. But that is my secret. Ruthie is why I create this event. I like to think she orchestrates it from above.

Does she see my grandchildren build the Seder plate? I sure hope she does. The warmth of her table is woven into the cloth that covers mine. Every Passover she has been in my mind, from the cramped table she filled in a small apartment to the table where I sit in suburbia five decades later. She blended us all . . . relatives, neighbors, whole Jews, half Jews.

She knew the rule in Deuteronomy, “Welcome the stranger to your table.” It was instinct with her, kindness without borders. Water down the soup, always room for one more! She taught me well without knowing it. As I look across my table I see her, an ordinary woman who was extraordinary.

See you next year, Ruthie. Same time, same place.

The Seder in 602

The candles flickered, reflecting in the glassy mint-green dishes from many Duz detergent boxes. The matzo, bread of Jewish affliction, sat blanketed in a clean dish towel. The charoset, a mixture of chopped nuts, fermenting apples, and Manischewitz wine, looked unappetizing as always. Later we would make tiny matzo sandwiches, cementing the pieces together, Passover peanut butter sandwiches.

And Henry, our Moses, sat poised in the head chair, ready to lead us out of the desert. The stage was set. The performance would begin shortly, and we the willing players were gearing up.

It was America in the 1950s, a place of promises, where Jews were beginning to weave into the American culture. Many had run a generation before into the open arms of Miss Liberty, holding her book, her torch guiding them to the teeming shores of New York City. Now the yarmulkes, little pancakes of velvet, reflected a new history. Left over from weddings and bar mitzvahs they sat at each place on the table waiting to be popped on. They carried the history of family in America while covering those shiny balding heads. . . .

The wedding of Sue and Mike Schwartz. The bar mitzvah of Steven Goldstein. And for the truly Americanized, the bat mitzvah of Amy Greenstein.

This was their new history. Europe left behind — the pogroms, the ovens, the insults. 

Here we sang the songs aloud, dropped wine for each plague with tiny pinkies. It was really wine, not blood from the swords of the old country.

Here we sat, a puzzle of people who formed this extended family every year. Relatives, neighbors, hangers-on, basking in the warmth of that room, around that cramped folding table, knees touching, sharing wine-stained prayer books (never enough), sharing the food, sharing our lives and the promise that was America.

This was America of the 1950s, the real land of milk and honey. Moses should have come this way in the desert. When the Red Sea parted he should have swum toward Miss Liberty. We could have avoided all the crap that came between then and now. A lot more people could have been at that table.

Magic in that little apartment. Magic in the freedom.

What a country!

Jackie Friedman lives part time in East Hampton.

When my aunt bought land in Springs in 1962, she put her own aunt’s name on the deed, “just in case.” The house she had built was about as basic as could have then been made: single-pane glass windows, uninsulated attic, water heater rusting in a crawl space.

God the family had fun there.

My aunt’s aunt, Tante Anna, taught us to play cards, a game called 21. This was what casinos call blackjack. Tante (she went by that name to us, as she was the only Tante who mattered to my brothers, sisters, and me) would sell pennies to us so we could play cards after supper at night. Five pennies a hand.

In those days in the Town of East Hampton, there was no cable television. If you had a TV, like us, with rabbit ears, there was only one station to pull in, WTNH from New Haven, Conn. (The reception didn’t come in that well despite aluminum foil decorating the antennas.) When I think about it, that was probably a favor. One late night I started to watch the movie “A Summer Place,” which has a memorable musical theme but may be the worst film ever made. The signal from WTNH got worse and worse as the clock ticked toward 1 a.m. I stuck it out to the end. I am sorry I did.

Card playing was better, though it seemed that Tante always won. I see her in my mind’s eye sweeping a pile of pennies into a beaded purse, many of the coins formerly mine. This hurt a little bit extra because she was at her age what I would have called old, but nonetheless had a dazzling smile as she did the deed.

Tante had taught us to play fairly. Draw on 16. Stick on 17, 18, 19. It just seemed that luck always went her way. Her old hand kept sweeping in the pennies. My brother and I speculated that she cheated. But we could never catch her at it. She taught me a German word. On the rare occasion that she had 16 and drew a king or queen she would bitterly say “futsch,” which means “busted,” “gone,” “vanished,” or “kaput.”

There were a lot of children at the table who learned to mutter “futsch.”

The Hamptons weren’t “The Hamptons” then. We were in the country. My father bought us used bicycles for $3 apiece. My brothers, sisters, and I rode to Daniel T. Miller’s store and split a Coke.

Tante is long gone now, but here’s one more bit.

Sometimes we would walk across the street to watch the sun set over Gardiner’s Bay. For a while a house was being built there. I guess now one would call it a McMansion. Once we were there and a man pulled up in a long white Cadillac. He looked like a bad writer’s version of a Hollywood director with a scarf tossed around his neck in the middle of summer and boots pulled over his pants. He came to where we were standing on the bluff and said, “May I ask who you are and what are you doing here?”

Tante had had polio as a child and one of her legs was a good eight inches shorter than the other. She walked with a cane. She picked up the cane and pointed it at the man’s chest. “We are watching the sun set,” she said. “We’ll leave if it does.”

I felt like I hit 21.

Dan Marsh writes from Garrett Park, Md.

I didn’t always. For years, I didn’t quite get what the Facebook fascination was all about. An office mate of mine, Tim, an early adopter, as they say (or as I used to say, or mostly hear from clients when employed in the advertising biz before I got bounced out of it four years ago), was on Facebook a lot. Other raunchier sites, too, but he was careful and conscientious and he is another story.

I decided to join Facebook (and Twitter and LinkedIn and etc.) when I realized I could send my published East Hampton Star column as a link. So I did. And got feedback in a way that I never did when it was merely a hard copy in the newspaper.

I started on Facebook in 2009 or so. I now have more than 500 friends, about 490 of them I have no idea who they are. But that’s what puts the un-face in Facebook. They write to me; I write back. I see their kids and their dogs, and they see my Thanksgiving turkey and my recent St. Bart’s vacation while the 2016 blizzard blasted the Northeast, and yet we’ve never laid eyes on one another. Isn’t that the coolest thing? Something new, anyway. New still for me, seven years into it, and I do mean into it. For a variety of reasons.

I connected more closely with relatives living all over the map. With old girlfriends before I came out. I am definitely more in touch now through Facebook than when all of them were living mere miles away in Brooklyn and on Long Island. One of my relatives, my niece, Sarah, from Arizona, came to town recently and we had a lovely lunch. We had never, ever had lunch before. And she paid!

I trade theatrical reviews with a guy named Andy whom I barely knew when we worked together decades ago at an ad agency. And he even showed up at a book signing of mine, whereas we barely spoke to each other when we worked together in 1994.

My brother (he’s 75) is on Facebook and, although not often, sends photos of himself playing his guitar and singing at assisted living facilities. He would never have told me about this over the phone, nor does he have to. One pic and everyone knows what he is doing, and when he is doing it.

Often, there are quick GIFs (what does that stand for?) of people having sex. I also get a lot of still pictures of naked guys, often from Arab nations. They live in Egypt or Saudi Arabia, or Iran! This somehow fascinates me, before Facebook quickly deletes these salacious selfies. (I could never, ever send a picture of myself topless. Except for maybe one or two taken in 1983.)

Okay. There are those detractors who call Facebook a tool for narcissists. For people constantly looking for attention or approval or affirmation.

There are those who shrug it off (mostly people over 60, but not me — I’m a hip 67!). They reject it as a tool for narcissists, for people seeking approval and . . . oh, I just said that, didn’t I?

Well, to them I say you can use Facebook as you wish; you never have to post a single shot of a casserole bubbling on a stove or a silly selfie with your BFF, or the dog or the cat, or the sunset. You can merely be a voyeur. You can scroll upward to all new posts sent by faux friends and bypass 99 percent of it until you come across something that interests you.

You can sign up and never do a single thing with it. (Plus, it’s free.)

But I like Facebook. For the ability to show off my writing (to get approval or affirmation and, yes, attention). But what I really like about Facebook is that you can appear, for hundreds and, for some people, thousands of others, to be an upbeat, well-traveled, well-fed, happy-go-lucky superstar. You can look like you have the life even when, in my case, anyway, it’s not all St. Bart’s and Per Se (although never been) or London and Paris — I mean, my whole life isn’t all that, these are just the highlights, the Hy-lights, if you will.

I’m certainly not posting a picture of me at a shrink session. Or taking a dump.

Recently, on St. Bart’s, during that aforementioned blizzard, I sent all sorts of postings: palm trees and the turquoise Caribbean, and me, tanned, relaxed, looking like a billionaire as the stock market, my retirement account, leads me to believe that I should plan my next vacation at a friend’s house in Asbury Park.

But, and this is where I kind of don’t like Facebook, two people had the nerve to send “Shut up” and “Oh, shut up” after looking at my posts of St. Bart’s and the palm trees, the turquoise, the etc., while that aforementioned blizzard in New York and the Hamptons was on its way.

Oh, really? “Shut up”? Not even with that accursed and annoying LOL following?

Those two were instantly unfriended — another reason I like Facebook. You can unfriend in the blink of a button. Maybe those two (and other jealous types) should see a picture and posting of me as I lay on a plastic mattress for two nights in a psych hospital, treated for clinical depression. (No, I’m kidding.) (No, I’m not!) 

You see, Facebook presents the happy Hy. The clever, cultural, charismatic Hy. And seeing your own posts out there (and all who respond — those who respond enthusiastically, anyway) does make you feel like you are living a privileged, pampered life. What’s wrong with that?

There is a drawback, however, that I believe Zuckerberg & Co. are in the process of correcting.

Say you read a story, from a virtual or an actual friend, that goes like this: My mother just died. It was a gruesome death, cancer, Alzheimer’s, a slew of strokes. Her husband, my dad, is still in the same nursing home. In a wheelchair. Unable to speak. I visit him. He doesn’t know me.

Is one supposed to press “like”?

Wait a sec! Stop the presses! Just as I write this, it has been addressed. Now you can press “like” and a bunch of emoticons show up. Emoticons that signify love and LOL (hate that acronym). You can press a face that is saying, “Oh!” wide-eyed, shaking his (bald) head from side to side. There’s also a crying face, and a red face, an angry face. All of this just showed up, just the other day, alleviating the problem of just pressing “like” if it turns out you don’t necessarily “like.”

What’s there not to “like” about Facebook?

Hy Abady, until recently a part-time resident of Amagansett, has come out with two collections of his “Guestwords” essays, the latest of which is “Back in The Star Again Again! Further Stories From the East End. And Beyond.”

Days before President Obama’s visit to Havana I saw a yellow Cuban taxi with an NBC sticker on its windshield. I knew things were changing in Cuba, and that logo was a sign of it. I was in Havana with Barbara and Dennis D’Andrea of Wainscott the week that included Obama’s visit. We had not planned to be there because of the president, it just happened that way. 

Presbyterian churches on the East End are part of a partnership with the Presbyterian Reformed Church of Cuba in the town of Guines, southeast of Havana. A number of us travel there each March, and recently in alternate years youth from the East Hampton Presbyterian Church have gone to Guines in the summer.

Our trip this year included 12 men and women. Most have been to Cuba before, but one, Joe Haines of Sagaponack, was going for the first time. Joe brought not only his engaging personality but also his music to the Guines church, where he immediately joined Pastor Abel Mirabel, his wife, Sara, and their sons in their gospel rock band. Another in our group, the Rev. Bill Hoffmann, pastor of the Montauk Community Church, joined the rock group on drums in jam sessions before and after a Saturday night concert at the church. Then, for a fiesta with a guest Cuban band, Joe stepped in to play bass. 

The rest of us joined in those festivities — Barbara and Dennis, Bill Hoffmann’s daughter Rachel from Washington, D.C., Patricia Wadzinski and Karen McCaffrey of East Hampton, Mayela Vargas, Iris Mitchell, and Susan Raymond of Montauk, and Maria Studer from the Presbyterian church in Levittown. 

Sunday morning worship in a Cuban church is not exactly in our customary polite style. With classes by age groups, a break for refreshments, then worship, the experience lasts more than two hours. There is much singing in strong voice, the gospel rock band, prayers, and preaching. Bill was the guest preacher. Each of us also extended greetings from our respective churches, including Amagansett, where I am pastor emeritus. 

Dennis D’Andrea and Joe Haines are Masons, and as part of our visit each year the Masonic lodge in Guines invites Dennis, and this year Joe, too, to a meeting and dinner. The Masons are strong in Guines, as elsewhere in Cuba.

When we return home, we are often asked, “What do you do in Cuba?” and “What changes do you see?”

What we do is visit with the people. Some of that is planned, as in visits to the homes of church members with Pastor Abel. Other conversations are as they happen among friends — at the church, on the street, in their homes. In one poignant visit this time, we went to see Miguel, a man dying of cancer whose wife suffers from dementia. Knowing of our visit, Miguel rallied and in characteristic manner spoke effusively, welcoming us to their home. In his life he was never bashful or retiring. On this visit I recalled to him and the group the time from our 2008 visit when Miguel, seeing us on the street, cried out with exuberance, arms in the air, “Obama, Obama, Obama!”

The subject of President Obama’s visit came up several times. Comments from Cubans were uniformly appreciative. One example: We visited the home of Francisco Llano. He is 90, a retired lawyer, and he speaks English. “What do you think of Obama?” Barbara asked. He was thoughtful before he replied, “I have great admiration for him.” 

We also visited Ophelia Baez and her husband, Hugo, in their home, an older wood-frame attached house with Hugo’s barbershop in the front room. As a young revolutionary Hugo fought at the Bay of Pigs in 1961. For many years Ophelia was music director at the Guines church. She spoke with feeling about Obama’s visit and the improvement in relations between the two countries. She sang a few bars of “The Star-Spangled Banner” and a few bars of the Cuban national anthem. And when she spoke of the Guines church as “my church,” Hugo gently added with a smile, “Our church.” 

It’s difficult for many people here to understand how some Cuban men and women can be revolutionaries in spirit, given their history, and at the same time Christians. We forget or perhaps do not fully realize that our own country was born in revolution. 

It’s also helpful to know that since 1994 the Cuban government officially is secular, not atheist. Pope John Paul II visited Cuba, as did, most recently, Pope Francis, who helped facilitate the opening of diplomatic relations between Cuba and the U.S. in December 2014. Churches in Cuban towns and in the cities are important centers of social cohesion, which in recent decades the Cuban government has recognized and supported. That is not to say all Cuban pastors and priests, or congregants, think alike when it comes to their government — no more than with opinions held by us of our government. It’s easy, and false, to generalize.

To speak, then, of change. The obvious major change is the opening of diplomatic relations. It was a thrill to see “Embassy of the United States of America” emblazoned on the embassy building. There are ripple effects. Among people we know, there is a guarded openness to expressing their opinions more directly. The Cuban government is still repressive, so these conversations are private within people’s homes or at the church. But I find a subtle shift toward openness, which I attribute to improvement in our political relations.

There are more obvious changes. Since a year ago, and much more so now, we see Cubans with phone devices. These are of Cuban issue and not tied to the Internet, still out of reach because of the government, with exceptions for medical personnel and the military. The government has set up WiFi hot spots in various places in the country, one in the central plaza in Guines. We saw young men and women gathered in clusters as they spoke on their phones at the plaza. 

What’s more, the Cuban currency will be changing to a 1:1 parity with the dollar and the euro. We heard that an American cruise ship would soon be coming to Havana. And we saw many more tourists than in previous visits, including Americans. Direct mail service between the two countries is another imminent change.

Barbara, Dennis, and I stayed in Old Havana for a week, the others in our group returning on March 15. We stayed in a convent hostel run by sisters of the Order of St. Bridget just around a corner and one block from Plaza San Francisco. It was there that President Obama and members of his entourage were parked before their walking tour to Havana Cathedral. We did not try to see the president since the streets were blocked. 

On Monday the three of us took a long walk, and on the way back we saw a crowd of people outside the National Theater. The Capitol building is nearby. Security personnel and Cuban police were patrolling the street, suggesting that Obama might be passing by. We waited an hour and left. I don’t know if the motorcade did go that way, but we sensed tremendous excitement in the air. One Cuban man on a tall bicycle rode by several times with an American flag and a Cuban flag on his handlebars. Barbara, Dennis, and I, with our Cuban friend Yoimel Gonzales, had been to the National Theater that Saturday to see the ballet. Obama spoke at the theater on Tuesday.

We visited an artist friend, Francisco Nunez, in his Havana apartment. He said of Obama’s visit, “The people are stirred up by it. It is the most important event in Cuba since the revolution.” 

The significance of Obama’s visit obviously is political. But in rising above the shrill, sniping voices, the president achieves stature from a historical perspective. As a student of American and Latin American history, I appreciate that and value my association with it in my visits with the Cuban people.

On Palm Sunday, we worshipped at the First Presbyterian Reformed Church in Havana, where the Rev. Hector Mendez has been pastor for more than 40 years. The church has an extensive social system of services for the people of the neighborhood, which is downtown, adjacent to Chinatown. The church was filled, as it always has been when I’ve been there, at least 200 in attendance. Prayers were expressed in the morning bulletin, as well as orally, for the visit of President Obama. 

Reverend Mendez also welcomed foreign visitors — in addition to us several retired Presbyterian pastors traveling together and visitors from Austria. We Presbyterians were all called up front, where we extended greetings and where by Hector’s unexpected invitation Barbara led everyone in prayer. She did very well, too. I speak Spanish, though not fluently. It is another dimension of the richness of the experience for me to speak in their language.

Barbara has been going to Cuba for 22 years. I have been visiting since 2005. The ties that draw us together are those of amistad, friendship, of long standing, like family. We are excited to see changes. At the same time, as with many Cubans, we are wary, not wanting to see such an infusion of American capital, trade, and business to the point that it unintentionally wrecks the economy or changes it such that it would no longer be Cuba. 

President Obama said it is not our intention to direct Cuban affairs, and I hope that will be true. There are remaining issues, which Cuban Americans are quick to point out. It is to be hoped these issues will be worked through with good will. In the meantime, the good will and pleasure we enjoy with our friends is strong.

The Rev. Rob Stuart, a "Guestwords" contributor for many years, lives in Springs.

I’m always a little embarrassed when procrastination pays off. I probably shouldn’t be, since I do it enough that the odds ought to provide a positive result once in a while. This time they did.

I discussed this proposed topic with Star editors almost a year ago. The title, “The Mighty Maxim,” has a clear subtext of “What Goes Around Comes Around.” Those of you who are members of the East Hampton Historical Society now know that’s the title of this year’s Winter Lecture Series. When the society’s announcement postcard arrived, my procrastination had to end.

Visitors to the Emergency Services Building who have gone upstairs into the large meeting room have seen the East Hampton Fire Department’s memorabilia displayed in cases and on the walls. One large wall has pictures of all previous department chiefs. Only Judson Banister is proudly shown next to a department fire engine, a 1928 Maxim hook and ladder truck. 

Jud joined the department’s Hook and Ladder Company No. 1 in 1919 and within a few years was elected captain, a post he held until 1930. As life and politics go, inevitably there comes a time when the younger generation decides to take on the established elders, and by the late 1920s this evolution had arrived at the Fire Department. Through a variety of team-building events, especially summer cookouts at his camp on Three Mile Harbor, Jud developed a large following from the members of his company, the department’s largest. 

In 1923 he ran against a longtime member and former chief, Felix Dominy, when the chief at the time, George Davis, a close friend, chose not to seek re-election and nominated Jud. Felix won by a vote of 51 to 49 and continued to be re-elected through 1927, a year when he again defeated Jud, 26 to 21.

The changing of the guard happened in 1928. Jud nominated Frank Conklin, known to have a large following of younger members. Chief Dominy was also nominated, and the final tally was 64 to 61 in favor of Conklin in a large turnout. Re-elected as captain of Hook and Ladder 1, Jud proceeded to work with the new chief to convince the village board that getting a new hook and ladder truck should be a priority. Funding would need voter approval. 

In June, village board members standing for election were re-elected, but the hottest issue turned out to be a proposal to allow movies to be shown on Sundays. It went down in defeat, while a proposal to raise $18,000 to buy two new fire trucks passed 157 to 125 despite predictions of failure. 

The Star’s Nov. 30, 1928, edition printed a picture of the new Maxim a week before it was delivered. In early December the 17-year-old Fulton truck of Company No. 1 was replaced by the impressive new hook and ladder engine soon to come under the charge of Captain Banister.

Less than two months later, on the first Sunday of February, it would be put to its first test during the Gregory Company Store fire. The four-hour battle was described in great detail headlining The Star’s Feb. 8, 1929, front page. The new truck was prominently displayed in a three-column photograph showing ladders taking firemen to the top of adjacent buildings. “The new ladder equipment,” the article said, “a part of the Maxim hook and ladder recently purchased, was used to very good advantage and every ladder but one was pressed into service.” 

As seems always the case, though, the significant and expensive purchase was controversial before the surprising town vote. In that same issue, Welby Boughton, The Star’s editor at the time, noted the controversy over the truck’s purchase, with many citizens believing it would become a “white elephant.” But he also pointed out that others thought its capabilities indispensable and offered, “From our viewpoint the ladders proved quite necessary and essential.”

Jud was elected chief in 1930 and was re-elected three more times before choosing not to run in 1934, when he was succeeded by Steve Marley. During his years as chief, the department organized a very successful competition team, winning a number of county and statewide trophies still displayed in the large meeting room. The Maxim was prominently exhibited during many of those competitions as well as in local parades.

Jud, encouraged to run for village mayor in 1936, won that election and went on to serve eight two-year terms. It was now his board’s turn to review and approve Fire Department elections, oversee budgets, and hear appeals for new equipment. Pending village elections during Jud’s last term, scheduled for mid-June 1953, brought up the prospect of a ballot issue to raise money for a new truck for Company No. 1. A brief front-page report in The Star just before the election reported “No Fire Truck Vote.” What happened?

Replacing the 24-year-old Maxim first came before the board at the November 1952 meeting. Berkley Bennett, captain of Hook and Ladder No. 1, explained some of the deficiencies of the aging Maxim, noting the company was in touch with the American LaFrance Corporation and recommended that a new aerial ladder truck be purchased. Board minutes reflect that Chief Walter Mansir and Captain Bennett were advised to gather sufficient information to bring the matter before the board as it developed the 1954 budget.

Harold Chapman, representing the department at the May village board meeting, told them the company, through either misunderstanding or misrepresentation, he was unsure which, had tried to get support for the new aerial ladder truck by direct petition. He was advised to proceed in the regular manner, getting approval first from the Fire Council and then presenting the request to the board. Further discussion revealed that while Company No. 1 was strongly in favor of the purchase, the department generally was not.

By late May 1953 the department secretary, Harry Parsons, wrote the board reporting a Fire Council vote of 7 to 4 in favor of purchase. Chief W. Adair Orr advised the board at its June meeting that this new truck, while having impressive capabilities and time-saving efficiencies, weighed 101/2 tons and would be prohibited from several roads and small bridges in the district. He recommended that the board contact the National Board of Fire Underwriters seeking advice as to the adequacy of the Maxim versus a new aerial ladder truck. 

A June 8 letter from the fire underwriters explained that based on discussions with Chief Orr on the Maxim’s condition and the nature of East Hampton’s buildings requiring protection, they could not “recommend any replacement at this time.” Parts of this letter were included in The Star’s report that the fire truck issue would not be on the June ballot. Nor did it come up in 1954 during Jud’s final campaign, which he lost.

What had gone around in the original purchase was to come around again while Jud was mayor — the desired purchase of a new ladder truck. It remained unresolved before he left office. A year later, a June 9, 1955, Star headline asked, “Is A 1927 [sic] Fire Truck Old Enough To Retire?” Answering its own question, the paper thought yes, saying, “For the safety of East Hampton’s firemen and the protection of property this 1927 truck should be retired from fire-chasing, according to talk among men up and down Main Street and Newtown Lane.” 

The Nov. 3, 1955, issue reported that the department got the new truck by direct action of the board and mayor. That new mayor? Steve Marley, who two decades earlier, in 1934, had followed Jud as chief when the mighty Maxim was very much in its prime. 

Do these issues ever stop coming around?

Steve Rideout regularly visits East Hampton to research family history. He lives in Shutesbury, Mass., with his wife, Carol Stanley Rideout. Jud Banister was her great-uncle.