Columnists

One of the most stirring moments of my youth was the April evening in 1985 when, as part of a marching mass of college-student protesters, I danced up Amsterdam Avenue to the joyful rhythm of the song “Free Nelson Mandela” by the Specials.

“I don’t want to let him go,” our eldest daughter said of her elder son, who in the not-too-distant future is to go to college, a normal progression you’ll agree, but she can’t bear the thought of him leaving.

Early December would usually be when we got the iceboats ready. A letter writer this week recalled a time, not really all that long ago, when Mecox Bay froze solid enough to race on. Not anymore.

A daughter’s streaming of Netflix’s “Wednesday” calls to mind the 1960s reruns of a columnist’s youth.

Like many men, Ron, a pack-a-day smoker, had gone years without visiting a doctor.

Subconsciously, as has long been the case with Christmas, I may want Thanksgiving to just go away.

And now you will be treated, reader, to the boring column in which I describe the circumstances in which I finally caught Covid-19.

Evidently, there is “a more brotherly mood” abroad in the nation than I had thought.

I have a visual memory of the recipe for oysters Rattray in my mother’s handwriting on a piece of paper tucked into a cookbook.

A failed home repair has a columnist fondly recalling life without running water.

People, it seems, have been voting against their best interests for years, since Reagan proselytized on behalf of trickle-down economics, which turned out not to raise all boats, just yachts.

Cerberus came out of the water last week, formally ending my sailing season.