Opinion

The old line “If you build it, they will come” should be applied to costly new sewage treatment facilities being planned for Montauk and East Hampton Village.

Best concert ever: Bob (“Schoolhouse Rock”) Dorough on keys and Richard Sudhalter on cornet at a North Fork vineyard, spring 2002.

Just imagine how much more peaceful the world would be if difficult and/or coldhearted people were walloped with a million daily currents of kindness and love.

There is little question that soccer here, the games that have been played by adults since the early 1970s and since 2009 by our high schoolers, has been East Hampton’s pre-eminent sport.

On the fate of a town-owned property in Springs where two important modern-art painters once lived and worked, we believe that a middle path should be sought.

Buying socks was a problem here — until I noticed a bin in the menswear section at the Ladies Village Improvement Society Bargain Box.

As with so many things in life as the years tick-tick-tick by, it takes rather more priming of the pump than it used to to achieve the right holiday atmosphere.

Purchasing goods and services close to home has some surprising benefits.

A simple question for the sellers on those social media marketplaces hereabouts . . .

Trump’s actions with respect to losing the election, while extreme, is hardly new. Winning is a supreme value in American culture.

Yes, Virginia, even 82-year-olds can freak out.

Laid up with a stomach bug for the past several days, I have had a lot of time to watch what is going on outside.

The only person I know who says they don’t gossip and holds true to that word is a friend who is autistic.

East Hampton Town has an advertising problem.

On Martha’s Vineyard, the way the towns deal with short-term rental properties could provide a valuable example.

We were excited to learn that adult education might return in the East Hampton School District — potentially offering choices among languages, the arts, and life and practical skills.

Pot? Hey, kids, maybe not before your brain has fully developed.

With its wide legs, its shapeless backside, its expanding waistline, the sweatpant is the official garment of the borderless, post-pandemic world.

“I don’t want to let him go,” our eldest daughter said of her elder son, who in the not-too-distant future is to go to college, a normal progression you’ll agree, but she can’t bear the thought of him leaving.

The expected forceful objections should not dissuade the town board from addressing a prickly issue and taking drastic steps to curtail parties in public places.

Early December would usually be when we got the iceboats ready. A letter writer this week recalled a time, not really all that long ago, when Mecox Bay froze solid enough to race on. Not anymore.

One of the most stirring moments of my youth was the April evening in 1985 when, as part of a marching mass of college-student protesters, I danced up Amsterdam Avenue to the joyful rhythm of the song “Free Nelson Mandela” by the Specials.

A daughter’s streaming of Netflix’s “Wednesday” calls to mind the 1960s reruns of a columnist’s youth.

Pictures of Pelé flashing on TV as FIFA World Cup fever spreads from Qatar to Queens bring back memories of a writer’s sort-of date with him.

Subconsciously, as has long been the case with Christmas, I may want Thanksgiving to just go away.

If you might excuse the cliché, Nathaniel Dominy IV is probably turning in his grave over what has gone on lately with his windmills. 

Like many men, Ron, a pack-a-day smoker, had gone years without visiting a doctor.

Georgians appeared determined to have their say on the runoff between Senator Raphael Warnock and his Republican challenger, Herschel Walker, despite intentional roadblocks to their participation.

A failed home repair has a columnist fondly recalling life without running water.

Was it a quirk of history or the hand of God that brought Squanto and William Bradford together?