Columnists

We interrupt raging March Madness to wonder when the Jets’ Aaron Rodgers waiting game will ever end.

This week’s column is the personal-essay equivalent of a very bad odor. Prepare yourself, reader!

Unlike Dante, we began our trip in Purgatory at the federal building on the city’s Lower West Side.

There was a time when I paid close attention to what it said on the backs of seed envelopes. Now I know enough to make my own decisions about the timing of when to plant.

My somewhat critical attitude toward cats — my less than all-embracing affection for all pets, all the time — is a character flaw, I’m aware.

Is heaven some sort of club, a fraternity? If so, its population may be sparse.

Foul weather is just the way it is here in the month of March.

The surprising end result of all that construction work at La Guardia.

I am interested in the mixing and remixing of ourselves, and there’s no better feeling than when we’re in tune.

There is not so much to do in March, other than plan and perhaps go on walks.

At last, the legendary Washington Heights home of the Millrose Games, “the fastest track in the world.”

This trip to Savannah was our first as companions, Nettie and me, rather than as — how shall I put this? — an adult dragging a child behind her.