I have long kept a secret that most who know me would find surprising.

My trip to the Vineyard, just one chapter in my futile quest for Lindsay Parker, was off to a farcical start.

When I ask friends what they’re up to these days a startling number of them tell me they’re “transitioning”– or thinking and worrying about it.

Last month I had to give the eulogy for my father, who passed away shortly before turning 90.

Survivors of the Dobbs Ferry High School class of 1970–including me–felt a tug to come together in this oddest of years at our 47th reunion.

I asked Angus about the wool: How and when are the sheep sheared? Who do you sell it to and what do they do with it? The answer was initially stunning.