Columnists

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.

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.”

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.

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. . . .”

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.

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.