Columnists

Did those who died in this country’s wars, who defended an egalitarian, optimistic, forward-looking society, die so that its lawmaking bodies would simply sit on their hands doing nothing, stymied when confronted with issues demanding action?

There is a little-known grave­site in East Hampton where the remains of Nathaniel R. Arch, a genuine United States war hero, lie.

A plea for no phones at the wheel, before artificial intelligence takes over the roads.

Ukraine, though its people’s suffering has been appalling, has decidedly not been an easy toss out. We’re rooting for it.

Spring is a time for paying attention, for noticing things.

The traditional Irish tune “Whiskey in the Jar” is told from the perspective of a highwayman, a bold deceiver and drunken carouser who meets with an English officer, Captain Farrell, on the Cork and Kerry Mountains.

Profundity and solace from an unlikely source.

To be of a place, and to be part of a worthy tradition to boot, is to be really blessed.

The brutal reality here is that reasonably priced year-round or even seasonal rooms are essentially nonexistent.

Honeysuckle, lilac, Coppertone, and secondhand smoke: These are a few of my favorite things. I sidle up to strangers at parties when they strike a match, just for nostalgic proximity. days of youth when I smell tobacco wafting on the breeze.

At the 2019 Comic Con in New York, before Covid cramped its style, I walked right by a booth set up by a legend among comic-book artists, Neal Adams.

Emily Dickinson said you’ll know it’s poetry if it knocks your socks off, or words to that effect, and that was how Mary and I felt as we were watching the documentary “Viva Maestro” at the Sag Harbor Cinema the other day.

I drove by the Pantigo fields as a group was getting set for a groundbreaking ceremony for a new Southampton Hospital adjunct. It made me sad, and then angry.

In the spring of 2001, I watched the clean-living-Americans-go-to-outer-space movie “The Right Stuff” and decided what I needed was to learn how to pilot a plane.

John Steinbeck and Cannery Row East.

In just one day last week I was inspected and boosted, and soon I’ll be implanted as well.

The East Hampton Town Trustees eventually had to take on the question of a scholarship named for William J. Rysam, an enslaver of other human beings.

I never liked the happy-clappy bright yellow of spring’s early buds.

This year the fun was bled right out of TurboTax.

Thomas Piketty thinks we’re heading toward more equality should the wealth be spread around a bit more.

I had a realization, of sorts, swimming in the warm water off Puerto Rico last week.

Even when I was a punk-rock teenager of 15 and 16, I kept a carefully curated vanity table, my bottles of drugstore body lotion and mail-order pins and badges displayed like a still life, like a Joseph Cornell assemblage.

Notes on life in a small plane.

It is depressing to think that war, nuclear weaponry, and oceans clogged with plastic will be our legacy to coming generations.

I’m glad my daughter is finally getting into thrifting.

A cable TV search for something to watch. Something other than ads.

Sag Harbor Village is the big city for me. 

Of late, I have gotten interested in a psychological aspect of cleaning.

It was at Theater 80 that I received my education in Barbara Stanwyck and Greer Garson.

Word from sunny Florida raises hopes for a revived piano circuit.