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Three generations of Rattrays have enjoyed the old house I live in, which, as you might guess, is both awfully nice and, at least on occasion, headache-inducing. I like to say that this or that treasure “came with the house” when someone asks about a vase or a chair, but I also find myself worrying about who has saved what and whose responsibility it is to do something about repairs and storage and suchlike.

I told our eldest daughter that she was living in northwestern Ohio the Suburban Dream, which she knows.

I’ll admit it: I enjoy show tunes. Listening gives me great joy, and I particularly like breaking out into song with a selection from a favorite musical. Be it Broadway hits like “Rent,” “Chicago,” or “Wicked,” I’ve been known to belt out a number or two. But only when appropriate, for instance when I’m alone, like in my car or in the shower, or when it’s clearly okay to make a ridiculous spectacle of yourself, like at a karaoke night at a bar. Since when is that a crime?

It is strawberry time again, which means time to think about putting up some preserves from the local crop. But the way things go, South Fork strawberries are usually gone by the time I get around to pulling out the canning kettle.

Louise W. Knight, a historian who is the author of two books on Jane Addams — the 19th-century activist and founder of one of the country’s first settlement houses, in Chicago — keeps in touch with my husband, whom she has known for many years. After the heinous massacre in Orlando this week, she sent him an email in which she took issue with the media’s calling it “the worst mass killing” in United States history.

I had finished reading of the last linotype machine operator at The New York Times, who’d quietly taken his leave last week at the age of 78, declining to be interviewed on his way out, and dreamed of the days when unions held some sway.

“Watch out now, take care, beware of soft shoe shufflers / Dancing down the sidewalks, as each unconscious sufferer wanders aimlessly / Beware of Maya.”

The old $50 lawn mower that I bought quite a few years ago from Harvey Bennett may have mowed its last lawn. At this point, I don’t remember if I had spotted it in the Star classifieds or if Harvey had mentioned that he had one to sell. But for $50, how bad could it be?

Perhaps you were among those who saw the feature about The Star in The New York Times on Memorial Day. Such positive publicity, and the subsequent rally of support from readers and the advertisers upon whom we depend, is no small thing. It’s not every day that reporters and publishers get a pat on the back and, for this, we are truly grateful.

I read a review of two sports books in The New Yorker recently and there was not once the mention of joy, though, admittedly, it was the business of sport — the money in it — that was the subject, not the headiness of play per se.

I should apologize at the outset to the man my kids and I call Wrong-Way Guy, but we’re kind of obsessed.

Trying to determine if the East End is medically underserved isn’t very hard to do, but it might have been foolish to try to answer the question the day after a crowded holiday weekend.

It’s Friday and it’s almost as if a show’s begun: There were 12 instead of the usual five or six servers behind the counter at Starbucks this morning. Main Street traffic was very, very slow. Noses were pressed up against the doors at BookHampton, which was to reopen the next afternoon.

Rain is fitting on Memorial Day, the solemnity of the occasion not totally forgotten amid sunny beach outings and start-of-summer barbecues.

Nine American war veterans lie buried in a modest farm cemetery off Jericho Road in East Hampton. I had driven by their resting place from time to time on my way to Georgica Beach from the highway, but had never given it much thought until John Phillips, who lives next door, filled me in.

East Hamptoners revere the heritage of this place and are proud that so many ancient objects have been preserved. The house that has remained in continuous use as a residence the longest dates to 1680 (and The Star is pleased to provide a look at it in today’s Habitat section). That certainly sounds like a very long time . . . but as historically significant as our treasures may seem, an exhibition now at St. Luke’s Episcopal Church puts them in perspective.

We took delivery of a Ping-Pong table the other evening, and it is sitting handsomely in the newly painted, well-lit basement.

We were having dinner at the home of friends when the conversation segued from the relatively safe subject of politics to the unfailingly dangerous one of cats.

Memorial Day weekend is when the seals abandon the South Fork beaches, turning them over to the summer crowd. But, well-fed and happy, they remain in the area, just slinking off to remote places to relax. Kind of like the locals.

Mine was called the Silent Generation. We probably didn’t have the collective energy of today’s millennials, but take a look at some of those, like me, born in the generation between the early 1920s and 1944: Martin Luther King Jr., Elvis Presley, Malcolm X, Andy Warhol, Robert F. Kennedy, Ray Charles, Che Guevara, the Beatles, and, get this, Bernie Sanders. Maybe we weren’t so quiet after all.

Knowing that my brother-in-law was going to the Kentucky Derby this year, thus forgoing his annual party where he persuades attendees to part with significant sums of money as he, as auctioneer, hypes the virtues of seeming — and, in the end, certifiable — also-rans, I said to Mary, “The good news is we’ll save $300 this week.”

I’m only, so far — ahem — a certain middle age, but sometimes it seems like many of the things I’ve done and places I’ve been are part of a long-ago dream, a narrative of memory threaded with story, and I can’t always pick apart which is which.

It’s fishing season once again, but for one reason or another I have yet to give it a try. Such is the state of things in the spring; pre-high season work demands a lot of attention, and with a house renovation under way, weekends seem to be taken up with arguing about tile choices and the like.

“Summertime and the living is easy.” Not. At least it’s not if you live here and find it a pain to have to adjust your daily life to the influx. Pretty soon it’s going to be time to limit our forays to the market, or anywhere else that requires driving, to midweek.

Min Hefner asked if I’d read the article in The Times’s Sunday Review section about the man who came late in life to tennis and advocated it as an ideal aid in extending one’s life.

The other day, like many recent days, I was in a funk about America. The presidential race — angry, degrading, dumb, bafflingly regressive — was eating at me. Then along came an old friend to make America great again — or, at least a little better.

Leaves are starting to emerge on the trees outside my office window on the second floor of the Star. I get melancholy about this each year because they both cut off my view of the proceedings that go on in front of the East Hampton Library and because they signal that the off-season is coming to an end.

Things lost and found have been on my mind ever since April 17, when my purse disappeared at Guild Hall’s John Drew Theater. I told the story of that mystery on this page two weeks ago — and had no intention of revisiting it, until, on Sunday night at 11, we were surprised to hear the phone ring.

Just when I thought I knew it all, I was blessed — yes, blessed — the other night to discover that I have a glaring weakness: I cannot hit, when receiving in the deuce court, a serve curved from the far corner.

Every election season there are one or two celebrities who threaten to move to Canada if their favorite candidate doesn’t get elected. It’s an idle threat because none of them follow through with it. I think they think us real folk will care that they plan to leave the country. But at this point there are far too many celebrities in the world, so to quote my father-in-law, “Don’t let the door hit you in the ass on your way out.”