Columnists

By doing absolutely nothing to my Noyac lawn I’ve inadvertently created a firefly sanctuary.

The classic lobster roll when I was growing up here in the 1970s was just lobster meat and mayonnaise, sometimes with chopped celery, on a hot dog bun. These days, variations abound.

One of the analog pleasures I miss most in our digital world is sitting on a stool behind the jewelry counter at my late Aunt Mary’s boutique on Newtown Lane examining catalogs from travel agencies.

John Steinbeck holds up.

Clandestine efforts to spread milkweed.

We used to have a much closer relationship with flowers and other flora.

Must sports fandom be subsumed by relentlessly hawked gambling?

My role on that historic Saturday was to observe and document.

Scarleth Urgiles’s memory will truly live on.

The last five-speed Nissan manual transmission just rolled off an assembly line in Mexico. 

A chat with a teen who wants to be a Main Beach lifeguard reminds me of my own brief and unremarkable lifeguarding career. 

The phrase “baggage train” kept popping into my head this weekend as we packed up the contents of my daughter’s dorm room in New Hampshire and stuffed it all into the crevices of the car.

Once more unto a storied eatery at a Catskills crossroads.

June is birthday month for the Rattrays. Chalk it up to the first chill nights of late summer and early fall putting people in the mood around here.

I tend to see the creatures who live in my immediate domestic orbit through a semi-comical anthropomorphized lens.

Arcades and mini golf and open-air alcohol. ’Twas ever thus.

Cerberus, my 1979 Cape Dory sloop, is progressing toward a July Fourth launch.

It’s been an interesting spring in family newspapering.

If you’re worried about whether society will hold together, a SUNY college commencement just might be a cure for what ails you.

Scuffs where horseshoe crabs had made love during night covered the sand at Lazy Point. Their fevered trails crisscrossed the beach. Plovers and turnstones probed for eggs along the edge of the water.

One of the recurring themes of this column that I keep returning to — like a dog that annoys its master by wearing holes in the living room rug by habitually turning circles and clawing at the carpet with its paws before lying down — is the incontrovertible truth that people used to have more fun.

Ticks have never been worse. Science to the rescue?

Getting reacquainted with Cerberus, my 1979 Cape Dory sloop.

I didn’t really enjoy the 1970s when I was in them. But how we miss that decade now that it’s gone.

A homily for parlous times.

Slavery and the debt owed to Black Americans are among the subjects the Trumpist thought police are seeking to erase from their telling of United States history.

I’m glad Gardiner’s Island has remained in private hands. Is that wrong?

What’s yours? Ross Macdonald or John D. MacDonald? How about both . . .

For Helen S. Rattray, a “testimony and witness to more than a half-century of community life.”

I’ve had this idea for a few years now that requires some artistic assistance. Does anyone know a mapmaker?