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There have been a lot of strange nights around the Fourth of July at our place. This year might turn out to be one of the strangest.

On this, the first day of summer, I thought it would be fit to fetch the snow shovel from its place beside the front door and take it to the shed out back. “I guess we won’t be needing this for a while,” I said to Mary, before recalling that given the winter that wasn’t, we hadn’t needed it at all.

Let's pause a moment to reflect on the passing of Joe Sinnott, artist and inker instrumental in shaping the look of the Marvel Comics universe in its 1960s heyday.

Dinnertime for black-backed gulls more or less coincides with people dinner around here, or so it seems to me. 

When Mary said we were already in heaven, our backyard providing ample evidence that it exists, I said Emily Dickinson had said something similar in some of her poems.

A self-imposed race against the clock to give blood as the pandemic drags on.

Exactly six years, eight months, and one day have elapsed since the last time I played the cello.

As such things go, early on during the pandemic I passed on a piece of good advice I had heard — about learning a new skill during the lockdown — then did not really heed that thought myself.

“It gets easier,” someone said recently in referring to long marriages and looking my way for confirmation.

The Bridgehampton racetrack was brought back to life Saturday for a simulated racing competition watchable on YouTube.

How can I ever thank you? You have been there from the beginning, in the soaring chorus of “Good Day Sunshine” through the car’s tinny radio so many summers ago, and even now you are here, the infectious — in the best way — “Home Tonight.”

In the 19th century, as many as a quarter of cowboys were black.