What may have seemed impossible following the fiery destruction of much of the Sag Harbor Cinema in December now appears, if not a sure thing, then increasingly likely. The prospect is exciting.
Here’s hoping that the free shuttle bus set to begin in Montauk next week with $100,000 in state funding finds enough riders to justify its operation. Acting on concerns about traffic and complaints about fare gouging by some taxi drivers, East Hampton officials have announced that the Hampton Hopper will operate a route that includes stops at the Montauk railroad station, the docks, Hither Hills State Park, and the downtown business area.
There are two people in my life who were extraordinary; they hold that title with me even to this day, though they’ve been gone for many years. They are my grandparents and, although they have equal places in my heart, this particular story is about my grandfather, who was born in 1885 and died in 1961. I knew him as Pa.
Early morning. The sun just up. The heat warming the pavement. A box turtle, drawn by the warmth or going from one place to another, creeps forward and settles on the center line as a hurtling truck approaches.
Helen S. Rattray
Because I am not much of a TV news viewer, my opinion about whether Megyn Kelly should have interviewed Alex Jones, the InfoWars conspiracy theorist, on NBC is neither here nor there. But the nonsense he sprouts is, to me, personally, not only outrageous but also obscene, and how to judge obscenity is something we have confronted from time to time even here on our letters-to-the-editor pages.
David E. Rattray
They say the first thing readers of The Star open to when they are young is the police news to see who got arrested. When they are older, readers turn to the obituaries to see who has died. I like to think they also turn to the obits for a good read and to learn a bit about lives well lived. At least that’s our goal.
Jack Graves
“What’s your favorite organ?” I asked Mary the other day, and she looked at me strangely, as she well might since I’d been reading Chuang Tzu.
Christopher Walsh
Manhattan, after the midday downpour that caught me ill prepared and quickly sodden on Saturday, was again humid by midnight, and in Times Square the tourists gaped and the panhandlers pitched and the bridge-and-tunnel roisterers swaggered in roughly equal measure as I made my way back to the hotel from the Port Authority terminal, where M. had boarded a bus for the hours-long journey home. Five years after leaving the big city, it can be a bit disorienting to experience it anew.