Columnists

The airline industry may be on the verge of collapse, but once upon a time pilots were celebrities, dating movie stars, driving fancy cars — hold the autopilot, thank you very much.

I am extremely bent out of shape about the apparent near-future extinction of the Atlantic right whale.

This is a column about poop trucks.

I was limited to 20-minute segments of highlights over a small laptop screen, but even that couldn’t diminish the pleasures of the Tour de France.

I’ve just come from chasing my son as he set off double-quick for his first day in Mr. Tupper’s fifth-grade class at the John M. Marshall Elementary School.

If I could only get to Abraham’s Path and make it across the railroad tracks without the tire rim shattering, I would be okay.

There was a fair bit more activity in front of the Star office when the Methodist Lane United States Postal Service mailboxes were inaccessible during work on the railroad trestles nearby.

What happens when your children go back to school after six months of family time at home?

First cellphone service, next the U.S. mail. It’s no wonder Americans’ trust in public institutions is not stronger.

It took a global pandemic lockdown for me to finally appreciate my father’s lifelong predilection for napping.

Some people have “sensitivities” to particular sounds or to the fabric content of sweaters. I myself have a pretentious sensitivity to trendy words.

Something I noticed only recently about the pandemic is that I felt significantly more animated after talking with a friend or even making a work call.