You’re not the only one with a summer rental, reads the sign in the window of the J. Crew on Main Street in East Hampton. The store is currently undergoing renovation and the sign is merely meant to direct customers to J. Crew’s “rental,” a pop-up shop just across the way, but when I came upon it the other night all brightly lit, it nearly stopped me dead in my flip-flops.

We have been renting houses on the East End of Long Island for years now, more than a decade at least, and there is something at once both dispiriting and enlivening about coming here on a temporary basis. As renters we are interlopers, transients. If the pecking order begins with those whose families have been here for generations, think the Halseys, the Toppings, and all those who have ever had a street named after them, and then descends to locals and then summer people, well, we are right after them, which is to say just one notch above day-trippers.

But our status — if you could call being a summer renter a status — also has its benefits. If to be an insider is to lose all perspective, and to be an outsider is to have no access in order to gain perspective, then we as outsiders temporarily granted a degree of insider access are well positioned to observe, and keenly.

Every house that we’ve rented here has had its great points and, as if by dint of some kind of Newtonian penance, its equal and opposite not so great points. There was the house on Ocean Road in Bridgehampton that had a swanky address and was, true to its name, walking distance to the beach. But that house also had a garage door permanently lodged in its dining room ceiling, the house having been cobbled together out of the garage of an erstwhile estate plus its various outbuildings. I loved that funky house even though I understood that it most certainly didn’t want to be loved for its funkiness. The house was like the personification of a failed bid at social climbing: It so badly wanted to move up in the world and yet, for all its desire to succeed, it nonetheless couldn’t help but keep exposing its awkward pedestrian roots.

Once, in the Village of East Hampton, we had a lawyer for a landlord who asked if he could commingle our security deposit, which was legally mandated to be in an escrow account, with his own personal checking account. Trying to be accommodating we said yes, and though it all worked out well for us in the end (we got back the correct amount), we did later learn that our landlord had been disbarred from the practice of law for those very sorts of infractions.

Another year, in Wainscott, we moved into our rental only to find that the next-door neighbor’s house was suddenly, irrevocably gone. This didn’t strike fear in my heart but it sure did strike fear in my husband’s. “It’s the Hamptons,” he said. “Someone will be building a house there in no time.” Perhaps truer words have never been spoken, for the very next morning the incredibly noisy job of laying the foundation and framing the house began and continued right on through till the end of our lease. When I called up our broker to complain he not only yelled at me, but hung up on me midsentence, and then for years afterward, no matter how many times I tried to unsubscribe from his emails, he wouldn’t stop sending me listings.

Much as I remember, and even in some ways hold dear, the ups and downs of each particular house, each particular renting experience, what after all makes up a decent chunk of my life experience, the simple fact is that it’s the memories of the people with whom I shared these houses that matter to me most.

Thanks to both an albeit shakily shot home video and the home video (perhaps also shakily shot) that is my now middle-aging mind, I remember my mother coming to visit me, my husband, and our then-toddler son 11 years ago on Job’s Lane in Bridgehampton. Things were already rather Jobian for my mother by that point as she had Stage 4 ovarian cancer, and yet what I most remember from her visit was not how stressed or depressed she was, but rather how carefree and grateful and happy she was to be there, with us, at that particular home, and how lovingly she trailed my son around everywhere he went.

The home wasn’t large but it had a huge and beautiful breezy backyard that stretched to the shores of Sam’s Creek, and I remember my mother sitting on a wooden swing on our back porch and saying to my father, “Let’s do it. Let’s go for it, Charlie. Let’s offer the owner a million bucks in cash.” She was joking, of course — my father never would have gone for it and neither would have the owner, who well knew just how valuable his land was — but in a way my mother was also very much not joking. Even though the house, which had been built by Leonard Lauder in the 1970s and not really been updated since, was a teardown, my mother loved the house just as it was. It was as if the experience of being there with us freed her chemo-addled mind to be itself again, to play, imagine, and even, for the first time in a long time, to dream about the future. So what if it would never come true?

The next summer we were back at that very same rental, all of us except my mother, who by then had her own piece of Long Island real estate, a burial plot in one of those gigantic godawful mid-Island cemeteries that are so big they practically have their own ZIP code. She was buried on July Fourth and I remember thinking, after a long hard six months of feeling devastated as I watched her essentially disintegrate, is her death going to ruin my summer? But the truth, in fact, was otherwise. Not only did her death not ruin my summer, it made it that much more poignant. Maybe we were all just renters. Maybe we were all just passing through.

This year we are once again in Wainscott, re-renting the house we rented eight years ago, and the experience is a bit odd, like going both backward and forward at once. Last time we were here we had just two children; now we have three. The first time we rented was from someone named Rob, whose nickname, for some reason I’ll never know, was Rebel. Sometime not long after our departure Rebel sold the house to an actress who happens to be a Buddhist, and though I myself am not a believer and the house is substantially the same as it was before, its aura is nonetheless completely different, more expansive, all-embracing, peaceful.

The other day my youngest child, whose very existence we hadn’t even yet wished for or imagined the last time we were here, turned 5, and so my father, now 87 years old, came by with his girlfriend for a family party. My father looked and seemed great, on point as ever, and yet in my mind I couldn’t help but compare him to the him of eight years ago. Last time he was here he walked the 1.2 miles to the beach, swam, and walked right back. This time he barely wanted to get out of his chair on the back porch. “I could just sit here forever,” he said, as the children played around him.

“You know we really should rent out here next summer,” said his girlfriend, who is one year younger than my mother would now be had she lived. But my father said nothing, just smiled, nodded. Later, when the sun went down, my father would admire the sky but then become eager to leave. He was getting cold, and like all good things, summers, rentals, and life itself, this too would have to end.

Johanna Berkman has been published in The New York Times Magazine, New York magazine, National Geographic Traveler, The Harvard Review, The Observer, and Glamour. She is working on a novel called “(M)Other Life” and writes about family life on her eponymous blog.

­While it is arguably the best time to be on the East End, with the sun still shining brightly and the local farms bursting with their harvest, our attention begins to refocus away from the joys of a glorious summer. The traffic has given way to yellow school buses as our children return to their classrooms. This is the perfect reminder to parents about the need to plan for the costs of higher education.

Starting early may ease the burden, as parents can take advantage of opportunities and programs specifically designed for saving for college. Parents and others who are thinking about funding education expenses should try to be as informed as possible and carefully consider their options, their own financial situation, and future objectives when deciding on appropriate levels to set aside.

According to a recent study conducted by the United States Department of Education, the average tuition cost of one year at a public university is north of $15,000, and a private institution is approximately $33,000. Consider also that these costs have grown over the last decade at an average annual rate of 6.5 percent, far outpacing both inflation and wage growth. This means that for my twin boys entering kindergarten this year, when they reach college age it is likely that one year of public tuition will cost more than $44,000. One year of tuition at a private university may reach close to $130,000. These are daunting figures.

The costs associated with obtaining a college degree might seem discouraging, but they are important to know and understand. Knowing what costs to expect drives parents to consider various planning strategies. Regardless of one’s financial condition, the best results are often achieved when a plan is initiated at the earliest possible stage. With that said, it is never too late to start.

For parents of young children, 529 plans have become popular tools to save for education. These state-sponsored plans offer tax advantages and are even transferable among family members. Education Saving Accounts also offer certain tax benefits, but differ from 529 plans in their contribution limits.

Student loans, too, are an important tool, but come with a cost. The burden of carrying debt for young adults entering the work force handicaps their path toward financial independence, a goal every parent has for their children. Merit and performance-based scholarships and financial aid packages may also play a role in covering some of the costs of college, but cannot be guaranteed and should not be fully relied upon. Other strategies to set aside money for education exist and vary in their complexity and have benefits and limitations all their own.

Watching my kids paddle out to the lineup at Ditch Plain with the warmth of summer still lingering in the air, it is fun to dream about one of them getting a full ride to college on a surfing scholarship, if there even is such a thing. I think instead I will add a little money to their 529 plans on Monday and make sure they do their homework.

Andrew Stern is a financial adviser with Lebenthal Wealth Advisors in Bridgehampton.

Stella Goldschlag was a German Jew from the Berlin provinces who worked with the Gestapo during World War II, identifying Jews stuck in Berlin who were masquerading as Aryans. Those German Jews who performed this betrayal service for the Nazis were called “catchers.” There were many in her profession, more than one would like to think, their Aryan good looks protecting them.

They could pass, at least for a while, unless a catcher turned them in.

The Jews in hiding — also protected by a non-Jewish mien — were referred to as U-boats, after German submarines, taking refuge underwater, false identities, so to speak, coming up for air in busy public avenues that they thought were the safest.

With Stella’s Nazi collaboration, the U-boats’ cloak of concealment became a shroud for those German Jews she unmasked.

She was a great-looking Aryan-type German Jew who, to be fair, had suffered an arrest, torture, and imprisonment by the Gestapo. Then a release, because her captors understood the potential Stella had in their racial cleansing of Germany.

Raised in 1930s Nazi Germany, growing up with Hitler, Stella Goldschlag attended a special school, the Goldschmidt School, for Jewish children founded after the Nazis removed all non-Aryan, that is, Jewish, children from public schools.

Her family did not get away while getting away was possible, while one could go to Hamburg, take a boat to Shanghai, where no visa was required and important Jews were looked on as Europeans, as opposed to their non-Aryan brand in Europe. Her father had failed to swiftly ask his St. Louis relatives for an affidavit of support then needed for Jews to emigrate to America, to the United States, to be more precise. Basically, the U.S. was not too sympathetic to migrants.

First, to save her family on a promise from the Gestapo that, with her complicity in disclosing Jews in disguise, they would not be deported to the death camps, Stella betrayed other Berlin Jews, the U-boats who were living in public as Aryans. When the Nazis reneged on the deal and shipped her family off with the others, however, Stella continued her work for them, to save herself. She would eventually become known as the “blond poison.”

The adage “one becomes what one does” applies to this Jewish woman whose self-serving tip-offs aided the Nazis in their Jew-hunts. Stella Goldschlag was responsible for the capture and subsequent deaths of hundreds. And she continued to help the Nazis long after her family was deported.

She would sit in an outdoor cafe on the main drag, and when she recognized a Jew she would high-sign the Gestapo agents who were there as well. They would efficiently leap — no, trip over each other — to action, to pull in the prey. She stalked and hunted down German Jews — U-boats — for the Gestapo, as well.

What is one willing to do to survive? We cannot know about ourselves in similar circumstances. But clearly, to this writer, the first step is the critical one. That is, the first step can embody all the others. The logical extension of an act flows from that first decision.

In the two major Western religions, Christianity and Judaism, the first believes in mercy, forgiveness, and love, while the second subscribes to justice, that is to say, acts have consequences for which we are responsible.

In Western philosophy, Kant writes that humans are responsible only for the intent of an act or decision, because consequences are out of one’s control. For the ancient Greeks, however, like Aristotle, referred to as the Philosopher by early Christian theologians, remorse is not a virtue. Sorry just won’t hack it.

Would any of us be Stellas, be catchers in Nazi Germany to save our family’s life? To save our own? Remember, the first decision is the trap.

So, more about Stella and the catcher crews some other time. She had three trials after the war, and her one daughter moved to Israel and would have nothing to do with her.

But now we look today at the Kentucky clerk jailed for not issuing a marriage license to a gay couple. She was put in jail, pleading that a higher morality she held to would be transgressed if she did her job, that is, if she followed the law of the land, in this case.

Now let’s go to the post-World War II Nuremburg trials. Nazi judges were tried and convicted for crimes against humanity because they did follow the laws of the land at that time, Hitler-time.

Oops! Are we hypocrites? Is an act a crime if and only if we don’t sympathize with the cause for which it was done? Hmm. And what kind of decisions would you entertain in order to survive?

Survival, betrayal, immigration, marriage licenses . . . if you live long enough there’s too much to think about! Makes you dizzy, doesn’t it?

Lona Rubenstein moved to East Hampton more than 50 years ago. Her books include “Itzig,” a novel set in Germany from 1900 to 1935.

The highlight of my summer on the East End last year was exploring Plum Island.

I had always thought visitors were forbidden, and so did Tom Rawinski, the United States Department of Agriculture Forest Service botanist I interviewed last winter about deer damage to forests. Like a growing cohort of scientists, he believes that overabundant deer cause more damage to Northeastern forests than does climate change. Since Tom works for the U.S.D.A., which operates the Plum Island research lab, I figured he knew the rules about Plum Island. But having told me that the island has no deer, and thus presents a unique case for what a Northeastern forest should look like, my curiosity was piqued.

So one day last spring I found the Plum Island Animal Disease Center website, which surprisingly lists names and email addresses of key employees. I wrote a short email to the administrative officer to ask if I could interview someone on the staff who might be familiar with the island’s forests. My theory was that someone at the research labs might spend his or her lunch break exploring the outdoors.

I was a bit taken aback when I received a response a week later from the Department of Homeland Security, not the U.S.D.A. employee to whom I had written. He wanted to know why I was asking questions about Plum Island. Uh-oh.

But what did I have to fear? I’m no Aafia Siddiqui, the Pakistani neuroscientist who was arrested in 2008 in Afghanistan carrying notes listing Plum Island as a possible site for a “mass casualty attack.” (She’s now serving an 86-year prison term in Fort Worth, Tex., by the way.) So I calmly wrote back saying I’d be interested in any botanical or conservation surveys done on Plum Island that might address the health of its forests, and in particular would like to interview anyone familiar with the island’s forests. And then I crossed my fingers.

For the next nine days I checked my email regularly, wondering how the department would respond. When they figured out I was a 58-year-old mother of four and member of the Garden Club of East Hampton, wouldn’t they immediately conclude I was safe? On the other hand, perhaps they wouldn’t even bother to answer.

It was a total shock, then, when Tom Dwyer, environmental protection specialist for D.H.S., wrote back extending an invitation to my “colleagues” and me to visit in order to “tour the island and learn about our mission.” Google-stalking Tom, I learned that he is the environmental resources manager for Plum Island, responsible for environmental compliance and waste management, including wastewater and emissions. This was definitely reassuring and intriguing.

Frankly, I was so relieved I wasn’t in hot water that I quickly wrote back to say yes. I also tuned out my husband’s persistent questions about whether I’d return with dreadful germs and require decontamination. After all, Tom Dwyer was on the case!

The next step was to recruit some colleagues. Having spent three months researching deer and forests, I wanted to go to Plum Island with the experts I had interviewed to see firsthand what they had described to me over the phone and in emails. And as Tom Rawinski had triggered this whole episode, he was at the top of my list.

Once assembled, our group included Tom; Mike Scheibel from the Masho­mack Preserve on Shelter Island; Todd Forrest from the New York Botanical Garden; John Rasweiler, a retired medical school professor and researcher of zoonotic diseases; my daughter Anna, who had just earned a master’s degree in environmental science, and other friends from the community.

The D.H.S. and Plum Island staff members who welcomed us to the island were uniformly hospitable. Jason Golden, a public affairs officer, met us at the Plum Island dock next door to the Cross Sound Ferry early in the morning and escorted us throughout the day. Dr. Luis Rodriguez, research leader, who was lively, dedicated, and eloquent, spent over an hour discussing the work done at Plum Island diagnosing and researching foreign animal diseases. Finally, after a brown-bag lunch in a conference room, we headed out with Jason to survey the island.

Plum Island is indeed a remarkable sanctuary for our native flora and fauna. It also hosts many invasive species in what Tom Rawinski dubbed a “free-for-all for plant life.” The fact that the island has no deer means that there is a healthy understory throughout the forested areas of its 834 acres, and I got to see what a healthy understory should look like: a nearly impenetrable riot of varied species of tree saplings, vines, forest shrubs, and herbaceous plants. The forest was cool, shady, and humid throughout.

On a hillside above a large bed of ferns in a depression in the landscape, we found a beautiful specimen of Solomon’s seal, a plant that deer have almost eliminated from wild and unprotected forests on Long Island. We saw osprey, towhees (increasingly rare on the East End), bank swallows, seals, and other wildlife as we toured the island’s beaches and forests, its old lighthouse and derelict military barracks.

But perhaps most remarkable of all, after three or four hours of hiking around the island and through its undergrowth, we found only one innocuous dog tick. No lone star or deer ticks at all.

I’m happy to report I didn’t bring back any dreadful germs or require decontamination. I’m also having fun trying out recipes from the Plum Island Cookbook, available in the gift shop at the main research lab. (Yes, there is even a gift shop!)

But most important, and even sadly, I now know what East Hampton’s forests should look like, and very often don’t, the result of overbrowsing by a deer population that is decimating the forests and destroying the habitat of so many other wild creatures with whom they share space.

Julie Sakellariadis is co-chairwoman of the botanical science committee and chairwoman of strategic planning on the board of the New York Botanical Garden. She has a house in Amagansett.

I flew on the first direct flight from J.F.K. to Havana, March 17, 2015. My six companions were members of several South Fork Presbyterian churches, traveling in mission partnership with the Presbyterian Reformed Church of Cuba. Our destination was the country town of Guines, 50 kilometers southeast of Havana.

Traveling that day were Barbara and Dennis D’Andrea, Zanetta Classens, and Karen McCaffrey, of the East Hampton Presbyterian Church, John Loper and myself, also from East Hampton, though as pastor emeritus I represent the Amagansett Presbyterian Church, and John White of the Bridgehampton Presbyterian Church.

Anyone traveling in Cuba or going to meetings while there knows that Cuba time is not corporate America time. Sunday worship in the Guines church may be scheduled to start at 10 a.m., but it actually starts whenever everyone gets there and when the leadership and the musicians get their act together. Never mind getting out in time for whatever else someone may have planned on a Sunday. In Guines, with Bible study, a children’s choir in performance, prayers, announcements, then worship with a gospel rock band, preaching, and prayers, plus a break for refreshments between the Bible study and worship, Sunday morning moves along at its own internal pace. It is worship in Cuba time.

I enjoy the leisurely pace. On weekday mornings I rise early and sit on the church porch with a café and watch the neighborhood wake up to the new day. In March it is still dark at 7 a.m., but with a streak of dawning light and on this day a crescent moon just above the one-story rooftops of houses across the street. Children emerge, dressed in colors by school grade, and some of them are taken to school by a parent on a bicycle. Men and women walk to work, with “Buenos dias” said between us as they pass by, or the shortened form, “Buenos.” There are cars and trucks, too, and tractors and motorbikes, and horse-drawn taxis or pedibikes for transport.

One woman sits with straight back, dressed in a yellow skirt and white blouse. Her posture suggests royalty. But there are no royals in Cuba, or corporate officers or lawyers with briefcases, or media entertainers with an entourage. Not in Guines. These are “the people” of the socialist revolution now 56 years on, a revolution that is running itself out in experiments with market economics. Change is in the air, and the question is, what will become of Cuba time when corporate time gets planted on those island shores? It is a prospect both anticipated and worrisome.

Our flight from J.F.K. was on a Sun Country Airlines 737. Because this was the first direct flight there was more than the usual check-in and security. There was a long line taking three hours to get to the first of several check-in desks for passports, baggage, payment for excess weight, and then security. The plane was due to leave at 3 p.m. but left closer to 5:30. It was as if Cuba time had reached up to affect the efficiency of airline punctuality touting “on time.”

About 95 percent of the passengers were Cuban-Americans. When we landed at José Marti Airport and it was announced, “Welcome to Havana, Cuba,” there were shouts and cheers and loud applause. In previous years our mission group has traveled through either Nassau or Miami. Now there are also daily flights for Cubans and Cuban-Americans between Miami and Havana, travel restrictions having been relaxed by both countries. The direct flight on Sun Country at present flies only on Tuesdays, one flight down, one back.

When in Guines, our group visits people in their homes. These are members of the church, some of whom may be infirm or ill, but on this trip we also visited some newer church members. Pastor Abel Mirabel is doing very well in his leadership. The church is thriving, as are other churches in Cuba, all as a result of 20 years of rapprochement between the government and religious communities. There were 200 in worship the Sunday we were there, with 40 in the Sunday school and a dozen in a youth class.

The church rocks, and it is also a social center the way churches were in our country in the 1950s, going by my recollection of the Midwest. Indeed, there is this sense that Cuba time is a variant 1950s warp, visually augmented by all the American cars of that era that have been kept going by clever maintenance.

But of course it is not the 1950s, it is revolutionary Cuba time moving into an unknown transition period. I saw a government sign that said something like, Individual opportunity is the new socialism. Will there be a postrevolutionary time? If there is, it probably will be gradual, or that seems to be the hope. There is a reluctance — shared with us in anecdotal conversation — that too rapid a change with a heavy influx of American capital would be disruptive. Nonetheless there is a clear desire to ease relations between the countries, certainly to get rid of the embargo, which the Cuban government calls a blockade.

Each year, I visit a family in Guines who are not church members. I met them through their son who is now 19 and doing his obligatory military service. When I first met him he was 11 playing ball with friends in the street. He was home for a few days. Sitting in their living room, I told them of our flight from New York and how the Cuban-Americans had cheered when landing in Havana. I noticed a certain expression on the mother’s face suggesting displeasure, though being respectful she said nothing.

Her expression reminded me that Cubans in Cuba have mixed feelings about Cubans in America. There are many lines of personal history, but among them is the knowledge that thousands of Cubans fled Cuba or have defected, and among those there is a political base that is hostile to Cuba. Cuban families have also been split by a son or a daughter leaving the parents behind or older Cubans joining married children in Miami, perhaps to find it’s not the paradise they thought it might be. What I saw in a flicker of expression on this woman’s face was a sense of herself as a Cuban who does not easily identify with Cuban-Americans, if at all.

That same afternoon conversation included the young man’s grandparents. The grandfather spoke with skeptical hope about talks that have opened up between our counties. With the people, he said, speaking in Spanish, there is not a problem. He gestured with an open hand, leaving unstated the suggestion that it will be challenging for the governments to work things out.

It is these conversations multiplied a thousand times over for many years that help build amistad, friendship, between our countries. Indeed, the many mission partnerships that congregations and religious groups in the United States have had with Cuban churches for over 20 years have created words of understanding that percolate through the church’s social fabric. The political initiative between President Obama and President Raul Castro might be seen therefore as a conversation that has been happening all along at a local level. Cuba time and corporate America time are now engaged in a dance as intricate as the salsa.

Those of us who travel to Cuba on religious visas are often asked, “But what do you do there?” The inference is that we might engage in hands-on projects, like building or painting or repairing structures. But that isn’t what we do. We are there in friendship, where conversations and home visits and worship are integral to our purpose. As Barbara D’Andrea, our mission group leader, once quipped, when we invite friends to visit our homes here we aren’t asking them to build a room or paint the house. What we do, though, is give money collected from our churches, which the Cuban churches use for their needs and programs. One new outreach in the Guines church is to provide a free lunch once a week for senior citizens.

There is one hands-on project, however, that we have been involved in. Two years ago a water-filtration system was installed at the Guines church. The same has been done at several other churches in Cuba by way of Living Waters for the World, a mission project through the Presbyterian Church U.S.A. For the installation in Guines, money for the project came through the mission budget of the East Hampton Presbyterian Church, with the actual installation done by a trained team from the Westminster Presbyterian Church in Minneapolis.

The Guines church distributes clean water to people in town without charge. They come three days a week, 900 people who are allowed up to four gallons of water each visit for their households. The results of drinking clean water are immediate and dramatic. Chronic gastrointestinal problems clear up.

The people walk to the church for the water, each one carrying large clean bottles to be filled. It is still Cuba time, measured by walking, and by talking, sharing the gossip of the neighborhood, the complaints of the day and the good will. People dress for the 80-plus-degree weather — which our group welcomed with exaltation, having come from a severe winter.

To fly to Cuba, even now by a direct flight, is in some respects to fly back in time. But then again it is to fly forward in time because of pending changes. My hope is that Cuba will not be pressed into a model of corporate America “on time.” Perhaps the tropical climate and Latin culture will prevail. We shall see.

The Rev. Robert Stuart, a longtime “Guestwords” contributor, lives in Springs.

Remember game shows? “Concentration,” “The Big Payoff” (with a former Miss America, the late Bess Myerson, in a pre-feminist mink coat)? Remember “What’s My Line?” and “I’ve Got a Secret”? “Queen for a Day”? “You Bet Your Life”? I do.

And quiz shows like “The G.E. College Bowl” or “Twenty-One”? Game shows, quiz shows — you and your family can feud over the distinction and which falls under which genre. But, for the most part, they have given way to reality shows that aren’t really reality.

I mean, how real was Bruce Jenner all those years with all those Kardashians, when, out of the blue, he declares he’s about to undergo a gender reassignment? That we never had a clue? Frankly, with his Peggy Fleming kind of hair back in his reality days as an Olympian, in his short shorts a la Richard Simmons, we should have guessed. But that’s another story left for Diane Sawyer to gather and uncover.

Of course, there is still “Jeopardy!” and the annoying “Wheel of Fortune” and “The Price Is Right,” but that last one is just not the same without Bob Barker, or, prior to him, Bill Cullen. “Let’s Make a Deal” is dull without Monty Hall. “Who Wants to Be a Millionaire”? I’d rather watch “How to Marry a Millionaire.”

And then there was “Password.” Allen Ludden, the host, dead a century, and his wife, as a contestant, Betty White, living approaching a century, with the odd way the off-camera announcer would tell, no, whisper the password to the studio audience and those of us viewing at home: “Sh-h-h. The password is . . . ubiquitous.” (Try that one on for size — Soupy Sales, a contestant on the offshoot “Password All-Stars,” would have a struggle, as anyone would, with that.)

The password is ubiquitous. And this is where I shift gears and segue and transition to the real point of this piece: passwords!

In fairness, and with ease, the password to unlock my iPhone, when it was the 4 and the 5 and now the 6 Plus, has always been the same. Four measly digits. Just four. No symbols, no combinations of numbers and letters. Easy. Breezy. Memorable. In fact, the same four digits I use at a cash machine.

Beautiful.

But every other password I need — to get into my Chase account online, to sign onto Amazon, to log on for my 401 balances (which I do daily, and you would too if you were retired, as I am, as I have been for three years now) — requires, no, demands difficult combinations: no less than eight characters, no two letters in a row the same, a cap, some lowercase, a symbol, a number or two. Then, to make matters even more humiliating, they tell you (They? Who are they? Some little people inside the laptop, or even littler people inside the phone?), “Your password is weak.” Or “not strong enough.” I need criticism that I am inadequate from an inanimate object? Believe me, I get enough from my life partner.

Netflix, on my smart TV, makes me feel like an idiot. You have to use the remote to scroll up, down, and across to hit the precise password, which I never remember.

Facebook is another killer in the random way it asks for a password. Generally, you just go to the app, but occasionally, and for no good reason other than Mark Zuckerberg is a genius and we are all morons and he constantly throws it in our faces, they ask for a password. “Your login has expired.” Why? How come? Don’t f**k with us, Zuckerberg. We are not as clever or as brilliant as you. I barely know how to work the electric can opener! (Full disclosure: That last line was stolen from a Woody Allen movie.)

But it gets even worse. Yes, it does. If you want to order something online, or respond to a friend’s article, or comment on how despicable technology has become, you are required to type a code of letters and numbers that run together, smash into each other, to prove you are not a robot or a monkey. Believe me, monkeys would be more adept as deciphering those indecipherable collections of numbers and letters. Uppercase? Lowercase? I wind up, after half an hour of ordering this watch or that pair of jeans, frustrated and canceling my cart. I just can’t make out the strung together, no, squashed together, code. Plus, my fingertips are too fat.

How many times have you wanted to toss a device out a window when you are told that after three attempts and failures you need to reset the password? And then you get a series of numbers as a temporary password, brief seconds to find a pencil, write it down, and make the effort to change.

The Notes app on my iPhone has a tab titled Passwords. It currently has 28 passwords listed, most already obsolete.

Pandora and iTunes and PayPal and Ticketmaster and Skype. There are also accompanying pins attached to a bunch of them. Twitter and Cargo and J. Crew and God Knows. That last password number never works. Because God, nor anyone else for that matter, knows how or why the universe of passwords has become so . . . hellish.

There should be a new quiz show or game show, a la “Name That Tune.” “I can name that password in four numbers combined with letters and symbols.”

Oh, @#!+*%& it. I can’t.

Hy Abady is just out with a new book, “Back in The Star Again, Again!” — a sequel to his 2010 collection of “Guestwords” and “True Stories From the East End.”

Saturday morning, 7 a.m. Look up the weather. Check. Organize the ads. Check. Comfortable shoes. Check. Wallet full of small bills. Check. GPS. Check. Okay, I’m ready!

With five years of serious yard-saling experience after I moved from a house to an apartment, I feel I have become somewhat of an aficionado of yard/tag/garage sales. So before the season begins in earnest, I would like to offer these tips to a) make your sale more profitable and b) make your visit to a sale more rewarding.

Sellers: Know your market! Someone else doesn’t need to pay the same amount for something used that you paid new. You must decide whether you really want to sell it and maybe do a little research to see what others will pay. That’s what eBay and Craigslist are for.

If you can’t price everything individually, then put items together that you want priced the same and mark the table. If you have a busy stream of people, you will be glad you did this, as buyers won’t have to ask about each item along with the myriad questions you will inevitably receive.

Some items should just be bulk-priced to sell more easily and more quickly. Like books, CDs, and kitchen utensils. Clothing especially falls into this category. Unless you have a special item, like a winter coat, or formalwear, most items can be sold in quantity. I keep a stash of I.G.A. bags for my sale, and you can fill a bag for $5 to $10 depending on the type of items. You can usually fit five to seven pieces in a bag, especially children’s clothing, although I have seen some crafty women stuff them to overflowing and still expect to pay $5. This gives buyers incentive to take more. The more you sell, the less you have to take to the recycling center.

A word about linens. They are a huge seller, but if they are not in good condition, point it out. Many people will still buy (my friend can get any stain out) even if they use it for a different purpose. Just be honest. Actually that goes for everything you are selling.

Many sales I have been to were special because the sellers went out of their way to be friendly and helpful without hounding people while they look. I have even seen coffee and bagels offered while you shop. If you have large items or furniture for sale, try to have a hand truck or other device to help get an item to a vehicle. A buyer may not have intended to purchase something so large, so it would be great to have help getting it to the car.

Layout. Beg, borrow, or steal any tables you can get. Looking at items at ground level is difficult, especially items you need to thumb through, like albums, books, and CDs. I see many people using large tarps on the ground, which is okay as long as you leave room for people to walk across it to reach items in the middle. If you do not have a rack for hanging clothing, a rope from tree to tree will work, but the items tend to slide down to the middle, making it hard to look through. And a full-length mirror ($5 at Kmart) is great to have also.

Tools are a brisk seller if they are in good working order. If you are selling power tools, have them near an outlet or extension cord so they can be tested by prospective buyers. If you have additional items that go with a power tool (think sanding disks for an orbital sander), make it a package deal and I’ll bet it all goes quickly.

If you have some items that really belong in the dump, please take them to the dump. No one wants your broken appliances, stained or torn clothing, or worn-out dirty toys with pieces missing. So save yourself the effort of putting them out and pricing them.

Personnel. It is very difficult to do a yard sale alone. You need at least two, better three, people just for the selling. Many more to help with setup and breakdown. Try to have someone at the entrance/exit of your sale to make sure people have paid for their items. Small items, like costume jewelry, have a tendency to disappear easily. I have unfortunately seen people who pick up items and just walk away with them. Just a heads up.

Have plenty of small bills on hand. It seems everyone carries twenties but will inevitably want to buy a book for a dollar. There go your singles and fives.

Advertising! You can’t sell if they don’t come. List in the paper and open the ad with the address, day, and time. I hate having to read through a long list of articles for sale to find the location while I’m driving or trying to map out a route. A very brief list of general items is good to have, and if you have a large, coveted item (think kayak), or something collectors may find interesting, do point it out in your ad.

As for signs on the road, they are very helpful but only if they can be read from a car. Use neon paper and a Sharpie. Give only the address, date, and time. Write big and clear. If your address is hard to find, then give a quick direction and make sure to put guidance signs at turns near your house. Too much information on a sign makes it hard to see the address, and then we’ve missed it — and you’ve lost a customer. And please remember where you post your signs and go back and take them down so people aren’t showing up at your house for weeks after.

Don’t forget social media. Facebook has multiple pages dedicated to selling individual items and you are welcome to post your yard sale info on those. Believe me, people read ’em.

Buyers: Know what you’re looking for and what you’re looking at. But also know how to judge value and condition so you are not disappointed.

Keep in mind, you are going to someone’s home and behave accordingly. Keep your children in check, or better yet, in the car, and do not take your pet onto someone’s property. I am sure a lot of people won’t agree with me on these two points, but use common sense. You have no idea if the seller or a family member has allergies or a fear of animals. And children have no interest in a yard sale unless there are toys, and then they will play with them and be in the way of other buyers.

Keep an eye out for unusual items. Retro is big these days, but keep in mind that what you buy is going to take up space in your house, so don’t let nostalgia run wild in your wallet. There have been times when I have regretted not buying something that I impulsively wanted, but much more frequently I regretted buying something I didn’t really need.

Don’t be an early bird! People who put that in their ads are serious. A sale listed for 9 a.m. is not going to be ready at 7, and no, you can’t help us set up. Come back when we are ready, you know, like the time we posted. Sometimes there is good reason for starting later, so respect the owner and be a good guest to his or her property.

Bargains and bargaining. Keep in mind that sellers are looking to make some money here. Don’t insult them by trying to get the price lower if it is already very low. Certainly give your best offer on big items, but if something is a dollar, just pay the dollar.

A word about tag sale companies. As a rule, I don’t go to them. Not worth the time, unless you are looking for antiques or furniture, and they are trying to make a profit so the prices aren’t great.

I could fill this article with stories of the treasures I have found over the years, but I would rather you take all of this advice and make your fortune or find your new favorite trinket. And let me know if you find a good sale!

Megan Collins Ganga is a business manager for a local landscape contractor. She lives in East Hampton.

Every few months I drive to Sagaponack from the Berkshires, where I live. I come to stay in my childhood home on Daniel’s Lane and visit with family. Each time I arrive, as I round the corner of Sagaponack Road and Main Street, I look over and see my 6-year-old self, pale and skinny with lank hair, sitting on one of the swings in the narrow patch of grass running along the side of the Little Red Schoolhouse (where a swing set still stands), getting an under-push from Sally Kinkade or Cookie Dombkowski.

If I were to compose a timeline of my life, it would connect one school building to another. The first would be in Manhattan, where I attended preschool at the Madison Avenue Presbyterian Nursery School (though I was a Jew). Miss Allen, my kind, composed, and elderly teacher, often oversaw the group of 3 and 4-year-olds from a rocking chair.

The next dot on the line would be a preschool in Springs, I think, run by Jackie Jackson. She danced and sang for us, and we made hats, which we decorated lavishly with balloons and brightly colored paper. From there the timeline leads to a kindergarten class at the elementary school in East Hampton, where all I can remember is that a group of 5-year-old boys staged an uprising when I tried to boss them around in the block corner. I cried not in sadness, but in outrage.

Then came Sagg School, where I was first introduced to finger painting, Dick and Jane, the pleasures of peeling open milkweed in the spring, and the confusing fact that there was an S in the printed version of Long Island. Silent letters. Unforgettable. I may have learned the word peninsula that year, as well.

From there the timeline leads right to the Hampton Day School, held, its first year, in the Mullers’ house on the corner of Ocean Road and Paul’s Lane in Bridgehampton. Our playground was one large tree in the backyard. I found out that bats would try to hide in your hair (and learned only recently that it wasn’t true). I acquired encyclopedic knowledge of the Greek myths (and wore my mother’s blond fall, bought for a party, the day I dressed as Aphrodite for our Festival of Greek Mythology). I learned from Tony Hitchcock how to use my five senses to make observations of the natural world.

In a slight detour from the sometimes weird but always riveting years at the Hampton Day School, I spent my sophomore year at East Hampton High School. There I first encountered something called a G.P.A. and the pleasures of walking up and down hallways as a form of socializing. I also learned how to ace an algebra test, though it’s fair to say I didn’t learn one single thing about mathematics. I returned to the Hampton Day School for one last year, where on my graduation night I performed with my friend Coco in a Pinter play about two strange old sisters.

All in all, a quirky educational history.

But I must have liked something about all those teachers, desks, assignments, friends, and foes, because in the ensuing 40 years, I’ve spent the bulk of my waking hours inside of a classroom, or thinking about one. I love school. But I’m beginning to dislike education. And it’s not just that too many schools aren’t good enough for the kids inside, or that standardized tests punish children and teachers without providing much of value, though I do think both of those things. It’s worse than that. Our basic idea about what kids should learn in school has slowly gone farther and farther offtrack, right into the ditch.

Somehow, instead of reasonable, achievable, and humane goals, ones that would actually help all kinds of children, from many backgrounds, become well educated, we’ve created a set of expectations and hurdles that would make the most eager young student want to crawl back into bed and pull the sheets over her head. In a misguided mission to make every child well trained, we insist they complete boring sentences, define words they’ve never used, do a kind of algebra that has little meaning to them, fill in blanks on test after test, sit up straighter and straighter at their desks, become skilled with a bewildering assortment of technology, memorize various chemical formulae, balance a checkbook, recite facts about other continents, speak a second language, pass more tests, and behave kindly and cheerfully even while sitting in dull classrooms with overworked, underappreciated adults.

Even if the current approach succeeded (which it doesn’t), we’d end up with a population of well-trained but undereducated (and possibly unhappy) citizens.

Right around the time of my last visit to Sagg, my younger sister, Jenno, sent me a photo of her son Ike and his friend Max, both 7 years old. In the picture, Ike and Max are standing on the street corner near Jenno’s house in Santa Monica. Next to them, on the ground, lies a red wagon filled with their wares: old toys that they are hoping to sell to passers-by. But these two entrepreneurs had a trick up their sleeves, an unbeatable retail strategy: In the photo, they are holding up a cardboard sign on which they have applied thick exuberant lettering, which reads, “Toy Sale! Toy Sale! Unless you have no money, then it’s free!”

When the picture first popped up on my iPhone, with my nephew’s crazy shock of red curls and asymmetrical grin, I gulped with laughter. But then it hit me. This was what we should see in schools. The boys had such energy for their work. They longed to be industrious, put their good ideas into action, and see the fruits of their labor. It’s hard to know whether their handmade sign reflected their generosity and good values (everyone, rich or poor, should get a toy) or their zeal for getting rid of inventory. Either way, what I saw in that picture was what I don’t see enough of in classrooms — interest, purpose, invention, and teamwork. And joy. They seemed so happy to be working hard and trying out their new idea.

When I revisit all those schools from my past, I can string together an educational story of skills (many of which were learned only to be forgotten), accomplishments, and grades (also of defeats, boredom, and uncertainties). Much more vivid than any of those, however, are specific memories of Aphrodite, kindergarten insurrections, and the surprise of using all five senses to observe a sugar cube.

Mostly though, it’s not what I remember that stayed with me. It’s the habits and inclinations I did or didn’t acquire (some for better and some for worse): the inclination to read everything all the time, to seek and stay in a conversation, to avoid math whenever possible, to savor the process of building an idea slowly and carefully, and, until I was in my 30s, a regrettable reluctance to be equally slow and careful in revising my work.

The dispositions we acquire in school are what last, and they are what really matter. Those dispositions have nothing to do with a mission statement on a wall or the curriculum written in a book. They come from the practices and orientations that are ingrained, day in and day out, while children fill out worksheets, worry about test scores, answer unimportant questions about correct though dull books, and master math skills that appear to have no intrinsic meaning — or, as the case may be, from launching a used toy sale where kids give away toys for free.

Susan Engel is a professor in the psychology department at Williams College and the author of two new books, “The End of the Rainbow: How Educating for Happiness (Not Money) Would Transform Our Schools” and “The Hungry Mind: The Origins of Curiosity in Childhood.”

I could’ve driven the handful of miles to the auto dealer on Old Country Road in Riverhead to buy my new pearl white Honda CRV with the rearview camera and cool-looking dorsal fin-like antenna on its roof, but the thought of returning to a town I called home for 17 years and haven’t visited in six made me smile, so I jumped in my four-door gray Civic, threw on Billy Idol’s “Rebel Yell,” pressed repeat, repeat, repeat, and danced by myself the 85-mile trip west to Levittown, never imagining my sojourn would hurl me back to 1964, when an innocent, very blond-haired boy known as Frankie daydreamed of wearing #7 on his back and owning a 64-count orange-and-green box of perfectly aligned crayons with a built-in sharpener.

The other day, one of those dreams finally came true.

Debbie, the salesperson I’ve known since 1990, an attractive Suzanne Somers look-alike, was running late, so when I tried to fill my third bag of the dealership’s freshly air-popped movie-theater popcorn, the receptionist squawked, “Looks like we’re out,” and turned off the machine.

Returning to my seat, a huge red bull’s-eye abruptly beckoned me from the south side of Hempstead Turnpike, a road notorious for many an accident, rather many a deadly accident, so I placed my empty popcorn bag with a few unpopped kernels in Debbie’s peace-and-love-sticker-decorated trash pail and skipped through the sparkling Windexed glass doors, continuing my best Mark Sanchez scramble between screeching Camaros, Firebirds, and a very old lopsided Oldsmobile to enter a store filled with more red shirts than the Chinese Army.

Not certain which direction to take, I took Lee Strasberg’s method-acting advice and put myself in the Labyrinth Metal Ball Maze game and started rolling through aisle after aisle after aisle, hoping something, anything, would catch my eye — not even the Mossimo women’s mix-and-match, multicolored, floral-striped string bandeau swim top at “$17.99 one week only” made me stop, knowing my wife would never wear one. But then I saw it, an entire shelf filled with Crayola products: glue, window crayons, colored pencils, sidewalk paint, paintbrushes, and the item I wanted more than anything else in the world, a 64-count box of Crayola crayons with the built-in sharpener.

The car could wait.

The box on the third shelf from the bottom threw me straight back to Miss Allen’s second-grade class in P.S. 122, where my classmates flaunted their neatly positioned 64-count perfectly aligned rows and columns of Crayola crayons with the built-in sharpener while I cowered with an eight pack of John’s Bargain Store brand wannabe crayons. I envied them all as they proudly resharpened their maroon, teal, and forest green crayons while I struggled to piece together with clear tape my broken red, blue, and black crayons, praying one day to be the owner of a 64-count Crayola crayon box with the built-in sharpener.

Sitting to my left was Doreen, my first crush really, a girl always with a smile on her face and a pink bow forever in her long brown, Shirley Temple-curly, parted-in-the-middle hair, but she liked my best friend, Dan, the most handsome and most likely pitcher in all of Queens to make the New York Mets starting rotation alongside Seaver and Koosman.

“Would you like some of my crayons, Frankie?” she said with a bigger-than-her-entire-face smile, as she delicately placed three colored crayons with names I couldn’t pronounce on my desk engraved with Bic blue ink.

“I’m trying to invent new colors using only these eight,” I said as I picked up one of hers, took a deep whiff of its scent, and put it back on her desk.

I’ll never forget the aroma of Crayola.

Doreen and I went separate directions after sixth grade. Sadly, she was never to be seen again, while Dan and I played baseball together, he the pitcher and I his catcher, on many championship baseball teams all over Queens and Brooklyn. He had an amazing deuce — curveball, that is — dropping off a table from 12 o’clock straight down to 6 o’clock, mixed in with a fastball untouchable by hundreds of batters.

We continued running the wood courts on our junior high school basketball team — he was always the best player in any sport he participated in. Our friendship grew, as long as we were teammates, until one day at age 15 I ran into him in a candy store after a travel baseball game he surprisingly didn’t attend, and he stunk of airplane model glue. Perhaps it was the brown paper bag filled with a tube of the stuff pushed in his rear pants pocket.

We lost contact after that. He was picked up for armed robbery, spent time in Rikers, and I later learned he passed away from a drug buy gone bad in Brooklyn.

I’ll never forget the stench of model airplane glue.

With no red shirts in sight, I peeled open the box I cradled ever so close, leaned over, and took a whiff, a deep whiff, and savored the moment, like freshly cut grass, the spinning pink cotton candy at the circus, the English Leather cologne you wore on your first date. The aroma of Crayola is a scent you will never, and should never, forget, like the wooden sled Charles Foster Kane longed for, it reminds us all of our youth, when wearing #7 on your back and owning perfectly aligned colored wax crayons with peculiar names meant everything.

With my trip back to 1964 complete, I placed the box back in its rightful spot, smiled, and exited the sliding glass doors of the red bull’s-eye, turning back once with a nod.

And for those who travel to that Goliath store along Hempstead Turnpike and search the third row from the bottom for the opened 64-count orange-and-green box of perfectly aligned rows and columns of Crayola crayons with the built-in sharpener, feel free to take a deep whiff, but please leave the memories inside. They belong to me.

Frank Vespe is a regular "Guestwords" contributor who lives in Springs.

We’d have cracked up laughing had we known of the “greatest generation” con that would define us 50 years later. The greatest generation was our parents who saw us through the Depression. Our children, we were sure, would be an even greater generation. We were clearing evil from the earth so that could be.

There was certainly much to praise in our conduct. We were kind and generous to the defeated population, especially to children. Several married men from my battalion took displaced children back to the States and adopted them. We were persevering, brave, loyal, brilliant improvisers with machinery. When the Allied command overlooked the big defensive advantage Normandy’s hedgerows gave the German defenders, it was the G.I.s who concocted solutions to cut through them and enable our 3rd Army’s breakout at St. Lo.

We also displayed greatness as a country. We invested much labor, money, and expertise in restoring the infrastructures of our allies and enemies alike. Yes, it was partly to create markets for our products and counter the appeal of communism, which was taking over Eastern Europe and threatening France, Greece, and Italy, but it was also an action that came from our hearts.

But then, we had a dark side. Many of us profited from Germany’s war-devastated economy and consumer shortages by selling our cigarettes and manipulating our dollars’ pay on the black market. We were intensely racist with Afro-American G.I.s, who were largely relegated to service functions and performed stunning feats of efficiency and endurance trucking supplies to our advancing armies.

And we looted and raped, not to the extent of our enemies, but we did this, and U.S. soldiers shot German prisoners. During the Battle of the Bulge, Wehrmacht soldiers wearing U.S. Army uniforms and fluent in American English infiltrated our lines and were misdirecting our reinforcement and supply convoys. If we believed captured German soldiers knew of the saboteurs’ whereabouts, we would give their top-ranking officer a few seconds to start disclosing it. If he didn’t, we would shoot him, then demand an answer from the next in rank. Either he or another captured soldier would then reveal it.

I have absolutely no criticism to offer on this. I would have done it myself if called upon, held my carbine to their heads and fired until we got the information we had to have and done so without a qualm. And though I have been registered as a conscientious objector since my discharge in 1946, I would probably in a similar situation shoot them today.

But, in addition, I might also shoot a surrendering soldier because I feared him, or coveted his Wehrmacht overcoat, which didn’t get waterlogged like ours did, or in revenge for their shooting G.I. prisoners en masse at Malmedy, or because my squad’s orders that day were not to take prisoners.

Which is to face the essential point. There is really very little room for greatness in war.

Indeed, a reason for us to avoid war is that we are lousy at it. During World War II, our leaders repeatedly made huge, inexcusable mistakes.

Gen. James Doolittle, commander of the U.S. 8th Air Force in England, flew combat missions over German-held territory despite his intimate knowledge of the Allies’ plans for the invasion of France. Had he been shot down and captured, German enhanced interrogation would probably have extracted these secrets from him, and they’d have been ready for us in Normandy.

Gen. Mark Clark, commander of the U.S. 5th Army in Italy, ignored a direct order from his superior, British Gen. Harold Alexander, to bypass Rome in order to surround the German 10th Army. Clark got the glory of entering Rome as a conqueror; the Germans got leave to fight in Italy for another year.

In the Korean War, Gen. Douglas MacArthur, a hero of World War II, defied President Truman’s order not to use American forces in his advance through North Korea to the Chinese border. As Truman feared, the Chinese entered the war, sent us reeling, and retook most of North Korea.

The Allies were lax in other crucial ways. We woefully underestimated the Japanese, in part because of our presumptions of racial superiority, and were late to recognize Germany’s ability to produce game-changing weapons, such as jet airplanes, which were 100 miles per hour faster than any warplane the Allies could put in the sky. If Hitler had not insisted most of his jets be bombers rather than fighters, for offense rather than defense, we would not have prevailed on D-Day or in our air campaign to disrupt Germany’s transportation system and war production.

My nomination for the most ruinous and ignorant act of all would go to J. Edgar Hoover, director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. In August 1941, Hoover blew off evidence from a British MI5 double agent, Dusan Popov, that Japan was preparing a surprise attack on Pearl Harbor. Hoover, a prude, detested Popov, a high-stakes gambler and womanizer. Popov’s most famous conquest was Simone Simon, a kittenish French movie star now renowned by cinema buffs for her performance in “Cat People” of a young woman cursed by her inner panther and also for providing her lovers with gold keys to her boudoir.

Rather than pass Popov’s information to the president and military chiefs, Hoover threatened to arrest him under a federal law, the Mann Act, for transporting a woman across state lines (New York to Florida) for “purposes of debauchery.” That Popov’s paramour was a consenting adult mattered not to Hoover. Four months later, Japan killed 2,400 Americans and crippled our Pacific fleet at Pearl Harbor and proceeded to overrun most of the western Pacific and Southeast Asia.

All of these gentlemen were extolled during the war and long afterward. President Truman awarded Doolittle a Silver Star for, among other things, his “personal example” during the very time his hubris was endangering our invasion of Europe. Clark was awarded a Distinguished Service Cross, our second highest medal, by General Eisenhower. After Truman fired him for insubordination, MacArthur came home to a hero’s ticker tape parade in New York, an invitation to address a joint session of Congress, and beseeching from Republican leaders to run for president. Hoover led the F.B.I. until his death in 1972.

In tragic contrast, Alan Turing, the young English mathematician whose solving of Germany’s “ultra” code probably saved the war for us, was harassed by the British police because he was gay and in 1954 killed himself. The appropriate outcome was Popov’s, who became Ian Fleming’s model for James Bond.

If Vietnam, Afghanistan, and Iraq mean anything, we are no better at war now than in World War II. The greatest generation will be the one that finds peace.

Seventy years ago today, May 7, 1945, Germany’s armed forces surrendered to the Allies.

Richard Rosenthal served in the 1251st Combat Engineer Battalion during the Battles of the Rhineland and Central Europe. He lives in East Hampton.