Columnists

True confession: I am a flower thief. I know it’s wrong. I have no moral compass when it comes to flowers.

What to do with a troubled dog? Or should that be trouble-ing? A family pet who isn’t much of a pet or all that family-friendly?

In an ordinary year on the day of my birthday, I told Mary, who brought me coffee and the crossword in bed this morning, she would have already claimed two palapas for us on Las Brisas’s half-moon Pacific beach in Mexico.

Covid-19 test diagnoses have fallen to nearly none in East Hampton Town in the last week. Where two or more positive cases were found in each hamlet or village a day, now the figure might be zero for days at a time. I am closely aware of the figures, preparing the semi-daily reports The Star sends out by email.

My children do not speak like native eastern Long Islanders, or even like citizens of the old New York. Their pronunciation is the same as that of my Amagansett nieces and nephews: that is, generic mass-entertainment pronunciation. I don’t know if the received Netflix pronunciation is a Californian inflection or a Midwest thing, but they will persist in pronouncing orange (which to me is are-inge) as ore-inge; and avenue (aven-nyew to me) as aven-noo; pure (pyure) as pyer, and coupon (kyew-pon) as coop-on.

Memories of “Go for 0, Tampa Bay!” and thoughts on the vagaries of N.F.L. fandom.

The other day, when Brett, one of the pros at East Hampton Indoor Tennis, noted that Jon Diat, The Star’s fishing writer, and I, its sportswriter, were among the few who wore masks when playing there, I said we did so because “we’re tyrannized by our wives.”

In East Hampton, if you had a street named for you before the 20th century, odds were that you were an enslaver.

Peak movie-going, for me, came in the late 1970s and early 1980s, when — a tangle-haired child of that unruly era — I was handed a 10-dollar bill and left to my own devices for entire weekends at a go.

A decent snowfall for a change brings thoughts of yesteryear’s less-than-safe outdoor activities.

An emailed letter from Southampton Hospital addressed to “Dear Friends” says, in part, that while the hospital is beginning to see a decline in Covid-19 admissions, “we urge you to remain vigilant. . . .”

This has been an extremely gratifying week for a team of us doing work to learn about the history of slavery on the East End and share our research with others.

I’m that person who cannot see the rare bird on the branch, no matter how hard someone points.

Families’ captive straits paired with their desperate hopes for their children had one professor comparing the cost of college to Big Pharma’s gouging of the ill.

The 1776 Commission’s “patriotic education” report apparently thinks we’ve been making too much of the country’s sins and too little of its virtues in our history courses.

A television news producer called the other day to ask about the Plain Sight Project, a joint effort to identify and document the enslaved people who lived on the East End from 1640 to 1830.

I think we need to talk about the depressing lack of a bar here in East Hampton.

I keep thinking about what that sensibly unaffiliated Down Easterner in the Senate, Angus King, said on “60 Minutes” the other night, about how those who raged at the Capitol have to be listened to, that they aren’t going away.

Oh well, forget about getting vaccinated. I called my doctor’s office the first day I was eligible, at 9 a.m. sharp, and they knew nothing. Then I called Southampton Hospital, and they too knew nothing.

Letting pets move around freely is a thing of the past, traffic being what it is and even the odd dog thief about.

Can we pause for a second to consider the fact that robots telephone us regularly to try to fleece us of our hard-earned cash?

The riot at the Capitol may have overshadowed the Georgia special election that elevated Jon Ossoff and Raphael Warnock to the Senate, but it’s too bad it did, because that unlikely turn of events nudged the federal government closer to the ability to actually do something.

As Trump’s thugs vandalized the Capitol, hacking their way through windows and doors, and flooding in, it occurred to me that we ought to watch “Lincoln” that night, that night of all nights.

Like many Americans, I have struggled to come to any kind of understanding of the violence and destruction taken to Washington just over a week ago. But one thing is clear to me as a late-coming student of slavery in the Colonial and early Republic North: Mob violence is no aberration in our history.

Nettie and I took a flying drive to Delaware this week to inspect the campus of a boarding school. Pandemic ennui makes even the shortest jaunt seem like a grand holiday.

Cable-less, I broke down and signed on for a streaming service solely so I could watch the N.F.L. playoffs and Super Bowl, which, after all, has practically become an extension of the holidays for the average American. And just in time.

Two strong guys took our two long, heavy couches to the dump the other day as part of a purging effort of Mary’s that I’ve warmed up to, though at times I fear I may be the next to go.

There probably were better moments than this for me to take up knitting. Yet here I am.

I’ve never understood why patience is a virtue. Patience makes life easier, sure (especially if you are a parent). But a virtue? Why?

Here was television at its best: a short documentary in the CBSN “Originals” series following asylum seekers coming up from Colombia into Panama through the Darien Gap. And then they take their chances at the U.S. border.