Columnists

Lights, moves around the western world’s solar calendar because it is based on the Hebrew calendar, which is an ancient, shorter, and lunar one. The years may be briefer, but since there are now 5,780 of them, there is plenty of reason to celebrate: Make of it what you will, a feeling of pride ensues if you accept thousands of years as part of your personal heritage.

While walking O’en one day not long ago, a woman, in approaching, said, “What a beautiful dog.”

My daughter Evvy and I went outside two hours before dawn on Monday to watch for shooting stars. It had been a relatively warm night, that is, just above freezing, and the sky was clear. A fraction of a yellow crescent moon could be seen in the trees to the east, just above the horizon. We stretched on the upper deck to wait.

December is crammed with holiday concerts, with performances at practically every school, church, and cultural institution. Someone else might get bored with holiday music, but not me. My interest in music doesn’t diminish, even when the music being performed gets a bit repetitive.

Justin Gubbins, in recounting the reluctance of his daughter Megan’s Portuguese water dog, Geronimo, to run anymore — marking the end of a career whose highlight was a 42nd-place finish among more than 600 Montauk Turkey Trot entrants four years ago, said that food was pretty much Geronimo’s sole concern these days, sex apparently being out of the question.

At the Choral Society of the Hamptons Christmas concert at the Bridgehampton Presbyterian Church last week, I found myself getting quite misty listening to the opening notes of the first carol. Aside from being transported by the music, by the familiar notes, I realized how many years it had been since I had first learned the carols.

Meg Gage stopped by with a rare artifact this week — a vintage metal license plate with the silhouette of a fisherman pulling a net from a small sharpie below the words “The Springs N.Y.” in two-inch-high, dark-green lettering.

Because I’ve been associated with The East Hampton Star for more than half a century, it is no surprise that friends at Peconic Landing ask whether The Star is thriving, and want to talk about how a community newspaper deals with the digital economy.

Being a dweeb, as I am, has its upside.

It has been a long time since a column of mine got as much reaction as last week’s. The subject was ordinary enough: My getting older as evidenced by my missing the last step on a stepladder on the Sunday a week before Thanksgiving.

There was a time when I frequently traveled from East Hampton to New London, Conn., to visit my husband-to-be, who lived and worked then at Connecticut College. My companion in those days was Mookie, a huge, black, shaggy dog — adopted by my daughter from the Animal Rescue Fund of the Hamptons — who not only had a charming personality but impeccable manners. As regular travelers on the Cross Sound Ferry, to and from New London, Mookie and I were befriended by the crew.

They were in Southampton and, frankly, the news was so good that I leaped from my bed, where I’d been napping, and rushed to the sink to trim my nose hairs. Ear hairs too, inasmuch as I am able.

Plenty of sources tell you about the risk of falls for the elderly. What they don’t tell you about are the dangers of the middle years — when the body isn’t what it used to be but the mind thinks everything is still A-Okay. Consider reading glasses.

I spent a sleepless night earlier this week trying to remember where I’d left a certain bright-purple file folder that I used to drag out every November, as party season approached. It was our party-planning folder, containing guests’ names and menus from celebrations in years gone by. In the morning, rather to my surprise, I actually managed to find said folder, in a bundle in a box among other folders containing favorite recipes.

If everyone who’s said they’ll come comes today there will be 21 in our house, of all ages, an infusion of spirit that ought to see Mary, me, and O’en, the house’s everyday occupants, through most of the winter.

Jackson Pollock and Lee Krasner standing by a cross-like iron object hung on the wall of their Springs house as photographed by Hans Namuth was on my mind one morning last week as I walked west along the bay shore.

In the old days, when we were seemingly among the few families who ate in a manner that is today called “locavore” — frequently eating things like eel, duck, and venison, as well as rose hips, wild grapes, and, of course, beach plums — we were not infrequently on the receiving end of gifts from hunters who had taken more than they could personally consume.

I would love to think I’m a lover of the natural world, but it’s hard to be a naturalist when twice in recent months tick larvae have rendered me so infernally itchy, and for so long, that I’ve thought more than once of paving everything over — our lawn, our garden, our bosky woods.

This whole scallop thing has me puzzled. There aren’t enough to go around as far as a commercial take goes, but I have had my best year ever diving for them with a mask and snorkel. This has given me a chance to mess with them in the kitchen in a way I would not if I had anted up for a pound or two.

An attentive group seemed surprisingly not bored on Tuesday when my daughter and I spoke about The East Hampton Star, and our magazine, East, at a gathering of a group called “Women in Conversation” at Peconic Landing, the retirement community in Greenport.

We went recently to Sagamore Hill, Theodore Roosevelt’s home in Oyster Bay, and afterward I said I could imagine his wife, Edith, saying, “Not one more polar bear rug, water buffalo head, or hippopotamus foot inkwell, Teddy, not one more.”

On my list of favorite things, right up there with shoulder rubs, Netflix comedy specials, and strawberries in June, is Christmas.

Reports of the scallops’ demise are premature, at least that was true in certain East Hampton Town harbors and select locations in Southampton Town.

Before my husband and I made our move to Greenport last spring, we undertook an epic clearing out of closets, pantry, and basement. It went on for weeks, and unearthed many an interesting relic of lives lived on Edwards Lane.

Time for gathering swallows to twitter in the skies, and yet all’s not melancholy; there’s a spring in my step even as winter, inevitably, is coming on.

I did not make it to Woodstock. I mean, I did not make it to Woodstock last weekend, not the music and art fair in August 1969, though it’s true that I didn’t make that Woodstock either.

Tuesday morning before voting I took advantage of a daylight low tide to pull a mooring from the bay. Fair weather in the month of November is difficult to come by. Though there were matters to take care of at the office, the tide and wind were to turn later in the week.

Friends met us for dinner at one of our favorite East Hampton restaurants last week, and handed us a surprising small gift: a copy of an outlandish million-dollar bill. The bill — faux, obviously — had skulls in the front upper corners and a red, yellow, and cream nuclear explosion where George Washington is supposed to be. On the other side, along with an image of some children, was the message: “Let us spend this money on a sustainable world for all of our kids.”

All Hallows’ Eve, and if the past is prologue nobody will show up at our door.

The village police closed North Main Street where it goes under the train trestle on Sunday during a heavy rain. Passing by on my way upstreet, I could see the brown water swirling in the dip beneath the bridge.