Down on my hands and knees, I was building a little moat around a recently transplanted hydrangea. My hands molded and patted down the dirt, moving quickly to build up the weaker sides as the water rushed in. READ
I arrived in Southold by bus in the summer of 1984, having agreed to a house share, sight unseen, with some friends from Rolling Stone magazine. I was 32, and happy to escape the fetid streets of New York City in the summertime. I knew that the rental, a waterfront cottage, was down a private road — and that was all I knew. READ
Rolling Stone is for sale. Not that I have looked at it in years. It was and is a magazine primarily for young men. There was a time, though, when I read it religiously. On my way to the stacks in my college library, I was often waylaid at the periodicals section for hours as I studied the magazine. READ
One small and unexpected delight in getting older is having access to my earnings record on the Social Security website. I marvel at the fact that the first two entries in 1967 and 1968, ages 15 and 16, show earnings of $14 and $7. READ
My earliest memories are of playing with the neighborhood gang in the woods behind our house in Long Branch, N.J.
We were a mixed group: different ages, boys and girls. The older kids were the acknowledged leaders and the rest of us a ready and enthusiastic army of plebes. READ