Opinion

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

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.

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.

“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.

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.

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.

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

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

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.

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

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

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.