Columnists

Remembering Peter Walsh and Coogan’s, his storied Washington Heights bar, at the resurrected Potato Hampton 5K in Bridgehampton.

There is a saying among sailors that there is no shame in running aground because it happens to every one of us eventually.

I’m childishly optimistic that this will be the year that Halloween trick-or-treaters return to my front door.

In James Fenimore Cooper’s steps, Glens Falls to Sag Harbor.

Cerberus, my 1979 Cape Dory sloop, has made the crossing from Connecticut.

September brings a distinct change in the inner weather, too. “Bittersweet” would be the apt word for this moment on the Julian calendar between Labor Day and Columbus Day.

Gorilla Grodd lives.

The town trustees’ clam contest is a lovely event. But where do the giants come from?

Last week I came across something new and interesting on Facebook for the first time in years.

Divorced from reality, sanity, and the actual mechanics of driving, the new car commercials are as depressing as they are slick.

A reminder of how wasps like old boats.

Tumbleweed Tuesday was the best day of the year, weather-wise. Of course, I am prone to such pronouncements. I can’t help it.

Dreams of tennis, yearnings for Queens.

Horns beget more horns, and, where once they were rarely used, they are now a near-constant Main Street intrusion.

All of a sudden the nest is empty, and it’s just me rattling around and opening the refrigerator door and wondering if I need to cook something for dinner or if I should just have Stoned Wheat Crackers and cheese.

Camaraderie and collegiality at the Ellen’s Run 5K in Southampton.

Where did all the boaters go?

A strange scene in D.C., where National Guard members roam.

When animals send a message — of annoyance, of need.

It turns out that deer have a preference for native plants and will clear these out, allowing invasives to take over.

Wandering up and down Main Street on my nightly perambulations with my dog, I visit familiar tree friends, and even address them out loud.

A fine, if pricey, time at the redone Jones Beach Theater in Wantagh.

With help from YouTube, I solve problems with my Toyota Tundra myself, albeit very, very slowly.

Decorating a bedroom is one of the pleasanter chores of parenthood, and it occurs to me this is probably the last time I’ll have the privilege.

Out of shape? Getting older? A little rain? No matter, showing up for Jordan’s Run is always worth the effort.

I have taken note of a science article about the benefit of “blue” places, like oceans, bays, ponds, and rivers.

It’s my belief that the cashiers at this one supermarket — as at most groceries and gourmet marts in our neighborhood — are only mirroring the incivility of many of the customers.

Once more unto the broken-down car.

Among the many community groups hereabout I admire, the East Hampton Trails Preservation Society stands out for its uniqueness of purpose.

We are somewhat view-starved in 2025, having spent 100 years and more cluttering up the joint with signage, driveway gates, ever-higher houses, powerlines, and Green Giant arborvitae.