Columnists

My granddaughter stroked the ball well in a middle school tennis match at Sportime the other day, but it was her composure that struck me.

My teen years here in the 1970s, in retrospect, seems a halcyon time.

Adventures in a deserted Kmart.

Doing the storms, the worst rot I found was on windows less than 20 years old made of junk wood and not intended to last.

There’s more going on than you’d think at Sunken Meadow come state qualifier time.

In the mid-1970s, Promised Land was like the wilderness of the Bible.

I quit Facebook years ago, convinced that, despite the happy patina, it was by and large a medium for meanness, for back-stabbing, name-calling, ganging-up, and worse.

I myself don’t believe in specters, but this is a true story.

“What difference does it make, really, when we’re floating around in space in a hostile universe?”

We in the news business have to be sure to walk the information over to where readers are, and not expect all of them to come to us.

All legislation held hostage? There’s gotta be another way.

For many of us, the windstorm that lingered from Tuesday into Wednesday brought to mind 2012 and Superstorm Sandy, which paralyzed the Northeast. Oct. 28 of that year had been still and warm enough that two of the Rattray children had gone swimming at the copper-gold end of the day.