Columnists

I have been spending a lot of time aboard Cerberus this summer, though not as much of it sailing as I would have liked.

As I was leaving Wittendale’s the other day holding a tall milkweed plant on the way to check out, a monarch butterfly flitted about me — a good sign.

There is a rhythm emerging in the struggle between me and the deer over who rules the garden.

A Monday afternoon in the D.M.V. road test queue in Patchogue.

Does it astonish you that there is a ferry in service today on the Long Island Sound that landed in France on D-Day?

What began as a simple college website search sends a dad into a tech tailspin.

If I think about it, I’m at my happiest around a bonfire, on the beach.

Research does not support the idea that marijuana is performance-diminishing.

Sharks have arrived here, and not just the sort able to think that parking among the dead is okay.

If I were sermonizing, I’d write one on the folly of self-abasement, self-doubt, self-mortification, self-flagellation, and self-loathing.

Shortly after Lyman Beecher’s wife, Roxana, bore their first child, Drusilla Crook was brought to the household to take care of the baby — she was 5 years old, “a colored girl,” Beecher wrote in his autobiography.

Here in Noyac, for some reason I’ve been overlooking nearby Long Beach, and was surprised it took me till the second weekend in July to appreciate it in a way I haven’t since the days of the Oasis.