Columnists

Considering how many osprey one can see around here these days, it is hard to imagine that not all that long ago they were thought to be in danger of extinction.

The ravaging rays, the dermatologist’s knife.

I’d like to recommend to you Rich Mothes’s show of paintings at Clinton Academy. I knew him back when he was coaching East Hampton High School’s boys tennis team.

Previous calls for summer-season civility did not go so well.

I am devoted to my Crown range. It was my grandmother’s, an inheritance.

The pleasure and pain of the all-nighter.

Maybe if I were less attentive to bed-making, my other attempts at tidying up might rise in estimation.

The spring rush can also be seen in the letters to the editor of this paper.

What we need around here is a hedgerow movement.

Dispatches from the SUNYAC outdoor track championships in Oneonta.

A requiem for newsrooms? Not so fast.

As the world shut down in the first months of Covid, it was the presence of huge fish along the Nature Trail that got my attention.

My son, Teddy, has been given a more-or-less-clean bill of health by his orthopedic surgeon after 12 years of what amounts to rather major medical intervention.

Revisiting Gregory Clark, newspaperman, outdoorsman, critic of modernity.

I should have read the Rotten Tomatoes critics’ and audience’s reviews more thoroughly before taking Mary to “Showing Up” in Sag Harbor on a recent rainy Sunday.

Time is ticking towards Cerberus’s launch day, which means there is a lot to do before Nick the boat-mover shows up.

If the Mets say to grab a mug and tea proudly, I’m happy to oblige.

Fox and Murdoch got off easy.

One summer night, my brother wrecked my car.

Seventeen Edwards Lane had slowly been descending into the gloom for a year or more.

Newspaper vending machines. I miss them.

In the urologist’s office.

Last Thursday’s record high 84 degrees got me reminiscing to a friend about a very, very low-budget feature film I worked on as location manager in the late 1980s.

For 300 years, residents have complained about Town Pond’s turbid appearance.

Notes from the barber’s chair.

No wonder April’s called the cruelest month.

In the basement one evening this week, I began thinking about tools, pacing one’s self, and focusing on the path, instead of the outcome.

Is it possible the pendulum has swung too hard toward time-saving devices, the no-brain zone, and ultraconvenience?

Keeping tabs on the on-again-off-again check engine light.

Carl Johnson hopes Bridgehampton can remain a year-round community.