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Speaking for myself — as a mother, and perhaps for my generation —I am both horrified and perplexed by the dystopian worlds that young people immerse themselves in (I hesitate to say enjoy) these days on television, in young-adult novels, and in popular films.

I told Jen Landes, who’s conducting a survey as to whether males are more inclined than females to put flat lids on their coffee, and whether, conversely, females are more inclined than males to put on raised ones, that she could put me down as a raised-lidder.

“I tried to talk with the dead last night, but the dead, being dead, gave no reply.”

Evvy, our middle child, was delighted Monday after school when she learned that she was a winner in the East Hampton Town Trustees Largest Clam Contest. Her 12.3-ounce hard clam was big enough to claim the top spot among kids in the Accabonac division, and earned her a basket of prizes.

I remember the first Thanksgiving in Amagansett, long ago, after I was married but before our children were born, primarily because it was my first experience cooking a goose; I’ve still got a small scar on my right thumb testifying to inexperience where goose fat was concerned.

“I’ve got no one left to root for,” I said to Rob Balnis during a workout at East End Physical Therapy the other day. “First the Pirates, then the Mets, then the Steelers. . . .”

Then, knowing he’s an ardent Buckeye fan, I added, “Maybe I’ll root for Ohio State. . . .”

“No, no, please!” he said, figuring that given my track record I might well be the kiss of death.

Thursday mornings at The Star are a time to regroup. The prior week’s news and features have been neatly filed, edited, printed, and bundled. The slate is clean. And although the editorial meeting to discuss the following week is only minutes away, there is a sense of relief, ease, and release, a calm before the next approaching storm.

“You can’t make them read it,” or some variant thereof, has been an occasional phrase around The Star newsroom over the years. What it signifies is that even though reporters might have covered nearly every twitch of something that is happening, a portion of the local population is always going to be surprised when it finally gets their attention.

There is a tendency among writers and editors to get defensive, as some of us did in the past week or so as the Army Corps began its Montauk project and as objections spread, largely thanks to Instagram and Facebook.

A friend with a bad cold handed me a sheaf of papers the other day, and although I was pleased to receive them, I was secretly thrown into a panic. I wasn’t in a place where I could immediately wash my hands, although when I eventually did, I sang “Happy Birthday” to myself — twice.(That’s an old trick for figuring out how long you should wash for it to be effective in removing germs.)

I bought recently for our 6-year old granddaughter “D’Aulaires’ Book of Greek Myths,” and then started reading Robert Graves’s encyclopedic version of them, only to realize that while vastly imaginative they are bloody as hell too, to put it mildly.

This month marks a year since I last set foot in Manhattan. A lot has happened.

There haven’t been a lot of cranberries in the bog down our way in Amagansett lately, and there haven’t been all that many foxes either. It is probably related.

My husband and I live with tunes of the past. He’s worse than I am, or is it better? He wakes up almost every morning with a song and his repertoire is vast.

There is nothing new under the bun,” I said in my best Ecclesiastes manner as my sister, who’s rehabbing a back injury in Pittsburgh, and I peered down at the health care facility’s limp culinary offerings.

If a parking ticket in Southampton Town isn’t a first-world problem, then I don’t know what is.

This week, amid juggling pre-election stories, it has been project time in the Rattray household. Evvy, our sixth grader, volunteered to make one of the party games for a school Halloween party, and so, after spending Tuesday trying to make sense of campaign finance reports, I raced home with a slab of builder’s blue foam.

I ’ve been all a-twitter as the dismantling of the early-19th-century Hedges barn on our property — soon to be moved and reconstructed across Main Street, on the Mulford Farm — draws near.

A woman overtaking me as I walked up — or is it down? — Main Street the other day said in passing that it was a wonderful day.

Putter, a male cat who may not have made it, and Summer, Putter’s sister, a shy, small, not-much-of-a-cat’s cat, have both blossomed into Disney movie-like caricatures — possibly, someday, attaining cat-legend status in the Cats Hall of Fame, East Hampton, N.Y.

It had been some time since we last thought about the Montauk Monster around the office. But on Tuesday, our memories were refreshed by a query from a National Geographic television program producer looking for images for an upcoming program.

Trying to explain why I like the film festival so much, I came up with a backstory: The Star was among the first public voices to welcome its arrival in East Hampton in 1993. Many year-round residents were wary that first year, fearing the festival would bring traf- fic snarls and unwelcome crowds of gawkers, possibly even harming lo- cal businesses.

Well, I’m finished with the Pirates — for awhile anyway. I had called on Zeus to strike down Jake Arrieta with a thunderbolt, but the best he could do was hit him in the butt with a pitch by Tony Watson in the seventh inning.

The closing of Waldbaum’s was a long time coming. The company had been teetering on the edge of bankruptcy for a while, and the growing neglect that comes with that may account for why so many of us out here were left wondering why Waldbaum’s hated us so much.

Lisa said it would get worse before it got better and she was right. There is a rule of etiquette that says that it is impolite to talk about one’s health, but if describing the cold that has been working its way through our household will convince one person to go scrub their hands, it will have been worth it.

Whenever th season changes, I think of a woman who worked at The Star some years back who arrived every day more than impeccably dressed. To be sure, she was fashionable, but every outfit also seemed brand new.

When the Republican candidates began to talk the other night about sending in the Sixth Fleet, strangling Putin, strong-arming China, and bringing Mexico’s bordercrossing legions to heel, I walked down the hall to see on our other TV the Pirates-Cubs game.

Most of us who live and work out here often find ourselves in close proximity to celebrities. They dine in our restaurants, shop in our stores, and even run lemonade stands with their children.

The film festival opens here tonight with a screening and party. Lenny Gail, an old college friend, and his family will arrive tomorrow to take in an impressive number of films with a little lunch and dinner squeezed in somehow.

Salem witch trials. During the dark days of the Red Scare, in the 1950s, Arthur Miller wrote his fictionalized account, “The Crucible,” about them, and the city of Salem, in Massachusetts, recounts the terrible story in museums and in a “Witch Village.” The Salem trials took place in 1692. Nineteen people were hanged, one pressed to death, and four died in prison. You can’t visit Salem without being confronted by what the law-abiding citizens thought and did.

“‘Rose, pure contradiction,joy...’”I began as Mary looked up from her porch chair on the afternoon of Tuesday, Sept. 15.