Columnists

Emails from colleges drift in and pile up in my daughter’s email inbox — and my own email inbox — like the falling leaves of the sugar maple and the red oak.

Thousands, if not tens of thousands, of what looked like little tropical fish-tank fish were swimming near the surface.

A straight father of three sings the praises of Judy Garland.

My mother, Helen Selden Rattray, has the longevity genes of the Greenland shark. She will be turning 90 years old on Sunday.

An office goldfish heads to the great fish pond in the sky.

Feeding the beast: On the 800-pound gorilla that is the National Football League.

I learned from a cheap book I read once on dream decoding, back when we read books, that if you dream of swimming or of the sea that what you are really dreaming about is your subconscious.

There is a certain kind of camaraderie that occurs at the counter of the beer store that I believe happens nowhere else.

Rediscovering the pleasures of AM radio.

One of the indignities of getting older is having hair that will no longer express your personality in a way that adequately represents who you think you are, deep down. Our hair betrays us with age.

As the recreational boating season hurries to a close here in the Northeast, my ideas of a summer spent at least part of the time afloat on Cerberus slip away.

Someone who grew up in Bridgehampton (this columnist, for one) might think all there was to Leonard Riggio was Minden, his vast and venerable Ocean Road estate. But his passing calls up more.