Columnists

For Mary Graves, May 25, 1952 - June 17, 2024

There are few things in this world as repulsive as bilgewater.

Cerberus, my 1979 sloop, remains where I left it in October, at a marina on the Connecticut River. The plan is to get it back into the water soon.

“I’m happy . . . I know it may not be politically correct these days to say so, but, yes, happy, I confess.”

Besides touchy, what is “local,” anyway?     

There is a distinct proprietary protectiveness of the very wealthy among us.

You intimately sense the connection between those who have gone before and those coming after in a small town Memorial Day parade such as ours.

A novelistic chance meeting at a bar in Noyac triggers questions about life in the Hamptons — and triggers generally.

Down where I live, within feet of the marsh, the buzz is constant from about the end of May until early October.

Making like a trucker, hell-bent on Myrtle Beach.

We dweebs go into the city about once a decade.

Among the plant-related projects that I have gotten into, none is as challenging as grafting apples. Now, in the second year, I have one survivor out of a dozen attempts, a scion cut from a Quail Hill tree.