Guestwords

Ah, the competition and camaraderie of hoops.

I am 74 and diagnosed with end-stage heart and kidney disease. The doctors said there was not much more they could do. Go live life.

Memories of funky, beautiful, artistic Springs in the summer of ’64.

The release of the Netflix mini-series “Halston” coincided with my discovery of a letter I’d written to a friend in Europe in early 1978 and never sent, containing my firsthand account of a busy Friday night when the designer played a starring role.

Thoughts on “The Potato Book,” a droll, tongue-in-cheek time capsule of a book with a 1970s warning in Truman Capote’s foreword.

Throughout this past year, for reasons that are not entirely clear to me, I have returned again and again to the lyrical prose of Peter Matthiessen’s “The Tree Where Man Was Born.”

July Fourth is a celebration of independence, and these are the reflections of an alumnus of the ’60s, the era of freedom.

Every March fills me with a false hope that spring is right around the corner. The inevitable rebirth of the new season is always painfully incremental. Glacial. The coldest winter I ever spent was a spring in Springs.

When I was 40 I began the previously forbidden search for my birth father.

June is L.G.B.T.Q. Pride Month, presenting an opportunity to celebrate and reflect, causing me to ponder if my awkwardness playing team sports was intensified because I was a gay kid.

I read the sign’s words out loud: “Grand Army of the Republic Highway,” adding, “I love that about America. You’re never far from our history, and we’re still fighting the Civil War.”

Why do so many men of a certain age suddenly take up gardening?