Baylis Greene

1 week ago | easthamptonstar.com | Baylis Greene

Be still my heart, when Sunny Sweeney takes to the airwaves of Willie’s Roadhouse on SiriusXM. Willie, of course, being Willie Nelson, the most musically successful former encyclopedia salesman in the history of country-and-western. Good luck finding better commercial radio. It’s wall-to-wall midcentury Americana, which means a whole lotta heartache and pining, hard times and harder drinking.

2 weeks ago | easthamptonstar.com | Baylis Greene

“Be warned! Crank skanks wander here!” So wrote some wit — black ink on a white wall of the entryway to an apartment building with a missing front door upstate in Bath. I’d recently watched an episode of the second season of “Breaking Bad” in which a meth addict crushes her druggie old man’s skull beneath a stolen A.T.M. because she takes exception to his nagging her with that most unbecoming of words, skank.

3 weeks ago | easthamptonstar.com | Baylis Greene

There comes a time in the affairs of men when they must rent. A car. I don’t know why I hadn’t thought of this sooner, for fun or utility and before the necessity, before the latest round of repairs took a household of three drivers down to a single set of wheels. It’s a dream realized, this Enterprise-supplied 2024 Chevy Malibu four-door in a metallic taupe that’s pleasing in some nondescript way. I’ve always wanted an American-made car.

4 weeks ago | easthamptonstar.com | Baylis Greene

Maybe you’re someone who gladly takes nature in small doses. Or maybe you’re someone simply gladdened by wildlife no matter where you find it. Either way, urbanized or countrified, the sight of creatures gamely hanging on in a built environment is strangely moving. And in the greater Riverhead area? Double that emotion. Across the concrete four-lane that is County Road 51, a stone’s throw from the dated and homely functionality of the Evans K.

1 month ago | easthamptonstar.com | Baylis Greene

“Do I dare ask what’s in the garbage plate?” So queried my older brother out on the West Coast, a fellow fan of Formica countertops and coffee cups of a certain ceramic heft, scuffed and pitted from decades of diner use. I’d just told him that three years after my eldest daughter first told me about this Rochester delicacy, I had at last sampled one. Or rather, ate till winded at a beery establishment beside the slow-moving waters of the Genesee River.