Dans Papers Literary Prize 2012

The End by Richard Scholer

admin — Tue, 27 Nov 2012 20:10:15 +0000

THE END
Richard Scholer
This is the beginning of the end. I titled this paper the end because, for me, it’s the end of an era on the East End of Long Island. For the past fifty years I have managed to make the East End a part of my life. When I first discovered it I was in my teens. When I really had a chance to explore it’s character, beauty and ambiance I was in my twenties.
In 1963 I joined the NYSP, and as a Trooper, was stationed in Riverhead. The barracks covered both forks of the East End of Long Island. While working a daily tour of duty I had the opportunity to explore every nook and cranny of the eastern forks. I patrolled the potato fields of the North folk and the then baron lands of the south fork. I covered the main and secondary roads many of which, in those days, were dirt roads.
As the years past I was given promotions and new assignments while employed by the NYSP. Somehow I had been captivated by the area and I made it a point to stay connected with the East End. In 1973 the bride and I bought a house in Hampton Bays. We became summer residents. Twenty-five years later we bought a house on Sinnecock Bay and became year round residents.
I believe that I was more aware of the changes to the East End, especially the south-fork, primarily because we were summer residents. When things change on a daily basis they are less noticeable than when you leave, for ten months, and then return to notice the difference.
Presently, with the exception of a few winter months that we spend in Florida, we are year round resident of Hampton Bays. Ironically, In the past as a summer resident my thoughts throughout the year were focused on; fishing, clamming, going to the beach, smelling the salty air and taking an outdoor shower. Now as a year round resident, having daily access to the joys of the East End, a certain amount of desire has been lost. I still love the East End but my passion and yearning are far less than what they were when we were summer residents.
As with most things in life nothing ever stays the same. Fifty years ago I was there to see: The Big Duck, The Blue Bird, The Oliver Twist Inn, The Eye, The Canoe Place Inn, John Duck’s, The Post House, Sag Harbor, The Montauk Lighthouse, Gardiners Island, The National, Gurneys, The Deep Hollow Ranch, Montauk Marine Basin, and a myriad of other places too long to list but all of which have the same thing in common. They all have changed.
Those were the days of the East Hampton haul-seiners. There were swordfish and white sharks a mile off the beach. The surrounding waters were abundant with marine life. The land, the bays, the sea all seemed boundless. The hamlets were quaint and non-commercialized and the vast majority of the people were year-round Long Islanders. The land was open and because it remained untouched, it gave off a magnificent feeling of freedom. It was a time when you had to look hard to find a fence or a fifteen-foot hedge. There weren’t any substantial traffic problems and the LIRR went all the way to the end which was also called Montauk. None of the above exists today.
Today I’m concerned about the future of Long Island’s East End. I know that change is simply part of a natural phenomenon but when I view how dramatic it’s become especially the population, it’s disturbing. I’m very grateful to have lived the experiences of the East End as it was during the past five decades. It was an irreplaceable era that was fantastically special.
Presently there are too many cars, too much technology, too many people and just so many problems that did not exist in the past when life seemed less complicated. Years ago the car ride to the East End was a pleasure. Today it is a calamity. Prime vacant land is hard to find and the existing structures are subjected to so many regulations that it’s remarkable that any of them still exist. The lesson to be learned from this analysis is to preserve what we have because it is quickly disappearing.
As our Eastern Long Island population grew it reached a point where the entire structure of the south fork changed. People fenced their properties, took more than they needed from the surrounding waters and gave little consideration as to things like water, sewage and conservation. Right now I’m filled up with a bunch of negatives but its 4:00 PM and unfortunately, or maybe fortunately for the reader, the time has arrived for me to spend some time on the bay. I’ll check back with this writing in a few hours.
Now it’s 6:00 PM and I have just returned from my daily scheduled time on the bay. I enjoyed a swim and then scratch-raked ten chowder-size clams in fifteen minutes. After putting them in the freezer, I walked the beach in front of my house and picked up the plastic bags, fishing line, and refuse discarded by those people who are not much to my liking. Often when I do this, I’ll have the feelings of anger and sorrow at the same time. The bay needs to receive tender loving care from everyone.
After forty minutes passed, I opened the clams so my bride of forty-five years could start preparing dinner. On the menu tonight was spaghetti with clam sauce and Arthur Avenue Bread from the freezer. My bride, Susan, is the best cook in the world.
My next move was a part of the joy I experience daily. It’s the pounding massage of an outside shower that I personally built to my own specifications. I’ve had an outside shower for almost forty years but this one is only twelve years old and it’s the best. I have ten, correct, shower heads and they all work. Some are homemade, some are expensive, some are cheap, some are standard but they all do a specific job. My shower was great and as usual the best cook in the world again made an excellent dinner.
Tomorrow I’ll try for a fluke in the bay. The fluke come and go as they always have but nowadays there are just too many boats on what is a relatively small bay. Unfortunately there are many anglers who take not what they need, but what they can. If I’m lucky, and catch, I will keep but one fish because that is all I need for the bride to prepare a panko crumb gourmet meal. After dinner I’ll put my thoughts of the day on paper. The above, last few paragraphs, describes but a small part of the closeness I have with the East End.
I have many lifetime endeavors but writing is one I never explored until I suffered severe hearing loss at the age of 70. I started writing and just never stopped. I write for the love of it and all of my writings to a storage place on my computer. In addition to many stories I have sent two books there. At the age of 75 my enjoyment lye’s solely in writing and for that reason I have never considered promoting these books.
Writing about the memories of a lifetime is my way of reliving those experiences that I cherish more as each day passes. I know that at times I’m far from grammatically correct but I’m usually captivated, to the extent that I enter into a certain mood, and write script using whatever colloquial jargon I feel at the time. My inspiration comes from the days when I: worked undercover narcotics in NYC, spent a week at The Woodstock Festival (1969), served in the military, lived in Colorado and Montana, had a Coast Guard charter license, commercially fished in Montauk and ran a very successful business. My stories of undercover Law Enforcement work and fishing are limitless.
I find the East End to be a thought provoking place to write especially when I’m near the ocean. What I have written thus far hardly touches on the myriad of persons, places and things I have experienced while out East. I hope I have prompted the readers not to think only of their futures but to consider the futures of their grandchildren and the challenges they will face. I wrote The End in hopes that its message might be a beginning for the next generation.
I can explain my own perspective in these few words. No one knows what the future holds but I believe that if you plant the saplings of knowledge and let them age in the orchards of experience, you will reap a harvest from the trees of wisdom.

Lost And Found By Kenneth Spadafora

Dan — Mon, 26 Nov 2012 22:02:31 +0000

Lost and Found

By Kenneth Spadafora

“Hazy Hot and Humid” the radio announcer chortled suddenly, waking me abruptly. I shifted slightly, rolled, hitting the snooze button much harder than I should have, while ignoring a damp, clammy sheet. Three sleep slumber seconds later, it was show time again, he was back on! “Really going be quite a scorcher” he blared again” the beach will be your only hope of relief” he announced gleefully. Having had enough. I pulled the plug. Yawning, stretching, I struggled to sit up , feet hitting the cool floor sending a caffeine like jolt to the brain. A bright beam suddenly caught my eyes instantly. Raising my right hand across my eyebrow in some kind of mock salute I found myself in the middle of some sort of crazy quilted reflections dancing along the ceiling. Squinting I realized my motorcycle was angled like a telescope to my bedroom window sending myriad reflections directly into the room. I was in its hypnotic trance. Deciding right then and there to do just what the radio jock advised; go to the beach. Packing assorted beach items including my brothers metal detector just for fun I thought. Thirty minutes latter spiraling east down Sunrise Highway, the the hot pine barons air gave way to the cool tantalizing Shinnecock bay breezes. Saluting my favorite portly billboard police officer I slowed made a quick right over the RR tracks passing the defunct windmill at SUNY’s Southampton Stony Brook campus

. Leaning left at the light, passing the reservation where I swear I could smell the tobacco. Into the labyrinth of hedges and privy streets ofAmerica’s favorite neighborhood I steered the bike to the guardrail at the end of one of the fingers of streets that dead-end to theAtlantic Ocean. Two and half million Long Islanders never tire of this indelible image mentally imprinted on their young Robert Moses impressionable minds. Sun, sky, sand and surf . Seconds later firmly ensconced near waters edge I break out 8 new AA batteries. Load them in, slap the velcro around my left arm , flip the detector on. The LED lights eerily. Bells and whistles follow, I’m in business. Putting earphones up and over my head and I start sweeping wide arcs slowly left and right like swaying a scythe through wheat. Ten minutes and 35 cents , 2 bottle caps into this I stop completely . It’s more work than I thought. Better to wait until its cooler , let the beach empty out a bit I decide. Beside I could really use a drink and take a dip. Turning I’m face to face to face with two woman standing5 feet. ” Excuse me mister , is that machine for a metal ? ” the older of two asked in what I could only surmise was a hard to define Swedish accent . Before I could wrap my head around a sensible reply , ” My daughter lost her engagement ring ” she went on. I glanced over to the forlorn , demur young lady, suddenly realizing this would not be as simple as it appeared. “An engagement ring ? ” I asked in a lilting voice , more rhetorically than informational gathering. ” Ya Ya , two weeks ago , a platinum ring , 1 and 1/2 diamonds “ Whew ! I thought to myself that may also explain their seemingly lack of momentary urgency ; it also significantly reduced as well any good chance of actually finding it. I reached for my wallet , pulled out a business card. ” I’ll look some today ” handing her the card . “ In the next two days I’ll return , search some more OK ?” She nodded . ” Call me by the end of the week , I should be able let you know if I come up with anything , all right ? ” She nodded. The actual thought of asking for their number disappointing them was not a call I would have wanted to make” Why don’t you walk ahead to the area of the beach you may have been in ” I suggested. The detector is LED sensitive enough to alert me to any find to indicate what I’m actually detecting. “Some of my digs may be for be a coin , other jewelry or metal object ” I declared .They understood . A few short steps along I had my first shinny new quarter. They smiled a bit sadly , turned and reluctantly went forward. Fifteen minutes further and suddenly my LED display begins flashing a unrecognizable ring sign. I scope quickly ,hear as well as feel simultaneously an object against the back of the metal scope. Up from the earth the sand melts away from the bucket and a brilliant sparkling ring is radiating all alone at the bottom of the receptacle. No diamond in the rough this. An expletive deleted silently leaves my lips; a small sigh of unbelief . I instantly look up , the woman are fifty feet away with their backs toward me obliviously to the find. I go to call, suddenly realizing I really didn’t know their names. ” Excuse me , hello, hello ” I manage to exhale in a increasing volume like a errant phone caller to a non-existent party. The young lady turns first , her mother follows ,then both turn to look at each other. The young lady suddenly sprints forward , in no time standing inches from my extended hand , thumb and forefinger pressing lightly on the platinum ring as if in an offering . She slightly bends her knees into a half stoop, puts both hands on her face and cries ” Oh my God ! Oh my God ! quite loudly. ” I can’t believe it , I can’t believe it ” only then taking the ring from me and turning to her mom who has managed to arrive by then. They both embrace and incredibly enough a few people standing along the beach who have become to realize what they are witnessing begin to clap and applaud. I become self conscious , turn and begin to walk away. ” Wait , Wait , Mister , Mister , you be stay here OK ! Ok ! . I nod my head in understanding. They both head to the street , enter their car and drive off. I turn, put the detector away and decide to take a swim .Half hour later, I’m packing up my gear on the motorcycle. Key in the ignition ,helmet securely on, I see the young lady turn the corner. Alone in a late model convertible Mercedes ,she pulls up adjacent to my bikes, exits the car smoothly . The motor’s left running. Walking in front of her vehicle, and now dressed in evening wear she hands me a small box with a ribbon and envelope slipped inside . ” You saved my life ” “You saved my life “ she repeats. First time I heard her speak . Her voice , English more perfect than I would have suspected from even my own 28 year old daughter. ” Thank you . Thank you ” . She shakes my hands lightly , turns, heads back to her car. Strangely enough a young man on a motorcycle glides up the street at the same moment and witnesses all this ; he had a very confused look on his face . Truth be told, I was a bit dumfounded myself ! . She reverses the car , smiles , waves with one hand . Turning the corner ,waves once again gently; before disappearing behind the hedge grove privet . Puff ! Magic ! , gone, into thin air , quick just like that . I sighed deeply. The box and envelope tucked under my arm , a small joy. I pack it away .Her name better I never asked I thought while also wondering if her fiancée ever even knew the ring was lost or found for that matter. Didn’t really matter at this point , I surmised. I glanced up .The young man still stood standing nearby looking for all the world for some kind of explanation. I give him none; shrugged my shoulders nonchalantly . I kick the bike’s ignition over , flick my wrist over the throttle, all the power of a 900 cc engine came roaring to life. Soon enough , speeding down the Montauk highway , back home, mouth and jaw held tightly together from suppressing a sweet grin . Afraid of blowing my cheeks apart like some kind of pumped up combination trombone player and troubadour. And all along thinking simultaneously to myself ; not a very bad day indeed Kenny , certainly not bad at all ! Sunset overSunrisenever looked so sweet ; Sweet enough indeed !!

See No Evil By JZ Holden

Dan — Mon, 26 Nov 2012 21:55:33 +0000

During the last great depression, the WPA sent writers and photographers to the heartland to document the hardships of the common man. Living with these impoverished families, the writer’s grew as close to the families as family members. LIFE magazine published the stories, and they changed the course of society. This essay was researched in East Hampton in the same manner. The story is true, only the names have been changed.

SEE NO EVIL

by J.Z. Holden

Lakota is a blond-haired, blue-eyed, self-cutting, eleven year-old girl. She has spent the last eight years living with her mother’s sister, a tough talking, manipulative, brunette and the loud-mouthed, four-hundred pound husband she dotes on, as well as their entitled and misbehaving three sons. All older and tougher than she, it is impossible for Lakota to go unnoticed in their raucous slip of a house, the back of which faces the affordable housing apartments in East Hampton across from the dump. The sounds of the dump, machine gears grinding loudly, drown out bird song. And on warm summer nights, their neighbors’ volleyball games go on until midnight, the players yelling in Spanish and Portuguese. Those fellows have enough people living in one house to populate two separate ball teams. And when they get going, those crazy guys and their endless Coronas, they do wild things like put in an illegal volleyball court and high beam lights. Their drunken shrieks compete with all other sounds; the cicadas, the sighing of the wind through the trees, even the screeching of the raccoons fighting over the half eaten corn cobs flung into the woods by the four-hundred pounder and his family.

When you first meet the sister Jenny, in whose legal care Lakota lives, she is quick to mention her alleged connection to the Mayflower as well as the first families to settle in East Hampton; superiority is what she craves. She would never admit that she is the reason for her madly dysfunctional family. Second on the agenda is her aggressive and grating insistence that she is a better mother to Lakota than her sister ever was. Watching Jenny and Lakota together, there is something cloying and skin-crawlingly perverse about the way she wraps her arms around the girl’s shoulder. Sooner or later, Lakota squirms free, but somewhere deep inside she likes the woman’s attentions because they make her feel special.

Lakota’s birth parents are young. And yet, they have been ill for years. Endless partying became AIDS, Hep C, spinal stenosis, liver failure, kidney failure and the occasional total organ collapse. And despite the fact that Lakota’s father Tony, and mother Jan, are hard core addicts, there is an untouched part of them that remains essentially naive and child-like. They remain patiently and passively victims, hoping that without having to do anything, someday their daughter will be returned to them. Saturdays and Wednesdays are the court designated days their beloved daughter is to be dropped off at their apartment. Her delivery on either day, prompt or otherwise, rarely materializes.

On Wednesday and Saturday afternoons, Tony and Jan can be found at the kitchen table, their mac and cheese cooling on the formica table top, complaining about how Jan’s sister keeps figuring out ways to keep their daughter from seeing them. They seethe with frustration and eventually, having worked themselves into a frenzy, they are unable to eat, so they feed the mac and cheese to the dogs. They raise their voices again and threaten to do something, but don’t. They have a legal aid attorney who is utterly useless; no matter how badly Jenny behaves, the attorney never goes to the trouble of making anything favorable happen. And because Tony and Jan are filled with self-loathing, on some level they believe they deserve this kind of treatment. It never occurs to them that the Mayflower sister’s punishing behavior is a cover-up. The real reason Jenny keeps Lakota from seeing her parents is because they are hiding a terrible secret. Jenny’s middle son, who has been sexually abusing Lakota since the age of five, has started having intercourse with her. And Miss Mayflower would rather die than have her son or any member of ‘her’ immediate family listed in the papers as a sex offender, or God forbid go to jail. If only Lakota hadn’t started cutting herself where people could see it.

Focal Point By Julie Cahn

Dan — Mon, 26 Nov 2012 21:53:05 +0000

Focal Point

Julie Cahn

It used to be that when you were pregnant and in a Lamaze program one of the first orders of business was to choose a “Focal Point”, a place or image that when conjured up would transport you from the pain and anxiety of childbirth to a more peaceful, bucolic place. As the prevailing, if not one of the only, approaches to childbirth at the time, one didn’t challenge the well-worn tenants of the practice nor did you question the lovely stories shared during the program of the joy of birthing. So, I picked one, that was the easy part.

My focal point was an actual spot, the place the lounge chair sat from one year to the next on the lawn at my parents’ house overlooking Gardiners Bay, in Amagansett. Rebel that I was, I manipulated the image a little, in the photo-shop of my mind. The actual spot overlooks the water but the water is not visible from it. In my focal point, you could see the water, sparkling from the sun, birds in the sky following the blue-fish as they ‘ran’ through the bay, sailboats in the distance…. I should have asked if it was ok to manipulate the truth a little bit in your focal point meditation. Maybe it’s not, maybe that’s why it didn’t work.

Jake was born on August 15 near the end of a long hot summer. Even the bay, with its usual breezes, felt stifling that year but I still insisted on staying in the Hamptons till the very last minute rather than hover by my chosen hospital in New York City. It was my focal point after-all. I remember bumping into a friend at the IGA around the 10^th of the month. She was horrified that I was still around so close to my due date. I couldn’t begin to fathom why she thought that was such a problem. She had had a couple of babies already. Jake was my first.

It was the 80’s; I had gone to a hippie college and was still comfortable in my faded overalls. As far as I was concerned, it would be just fine if I delivered the baby on the sand in front of the house or maybe in the water. She, on the other hand,

was imagining my water breaking on RT 27 traveling west on a Saturday in a panic toward the emergency room of South Hampton Hospital. I could see it in her eyes. “Oh, it will be great” I said, leaving her worried for me in the deli department. “ ”Good luck,’ she said with a kind of squeak in her voice, as I waddled my way to the cash register with my first bag of diapers. The crib was set up, the changing table too, diapers would go in their designated place. I was ready.

As it turned out, I had made it back to the city just in time for Jake’s birth and my carefully planned birth experience at New York Hospital. I don’t want to build up artificial tension here, Jake came out a healthy baby and has managed to live an interesting full 26 years of life so far but lets just say, at his birth, things did not go as they were expected to go. Bucolic? no, exciting?, no, peaceful and painless?, no. We were mishandled and I was terrified. Not only did my focal point bite the dust but I flew the coop day two, staples still oozing from the emergency c-section performed on me. “Get me out of here!!!” I demanded to my then husband. Maybe I was a little hysterical from 3 days of no sleep combined with an overdose of pitocin that the attendants and visiting high power OBGYN had overlooked and left “dripping” in me for 48 hours instead of 4, but I was convinced that my baby and I were not safe there and that we had to leave rather than stay the recommended 5 days after surgery.

My poor husband didn’t have much of a say in the matter. Granted, I was having the experience but he had been watching it. While my Dr. was filling out his overdue insurance forms, and listening to the game on the radio, my husband had been watching me writhe and couldn’t do a thing about it. If focal points don’t work at that point, sweet words don’t much either. But then again, he wasn’t much for sweet words, and I wasn’t much for listening.

Summer Break By Julie Burroughs Erdman

Dan — Mon, 26 Nov 2012 21:51:01 +0000

Summer Break

by Julie Burroughs Erdman

The photograph betrayed nothing of my internal storm. Bikini clad, smiling, and tan enough to suggest a healthy glow, my arm was around a beautiful Latina woman I was friends with at the time. Surrounded by a small group of young men in swimming trunks who looked happy just to be there, nothing in my appearance suggested that I would face psychiatric hospitalization within one week.

It all began when I realized that I despised my job. Folding napkins into perfectly symmetrical tents, I was enslaved by the need to retrieve ice from and endlessly grinding machine. When Labor Day passed I resigned, telling coworkers that I wanted to travel. Taking the addresses of transient summer workers, I said I would visit them in Colorado, Arizona, and Utah, while I knew full well that I wasn’t going anywhere. The part of me that stood sentinel against my mood swinging pendulum had slipped away, and I became unhinged.

Holed up in my apartment above a restaurant on Main Street in Sag Harbor, my mind was filled with images of death. I dreamed that my parents’ dog drowned in a pool that she couldn’t escape from, sinking after swimming in desperate circles. That my mother called to tell me that their dog had died from some mysterious disease that the vet couldn’t diagnose or treat informed me of a precognitive ability that I did not ask for or want.

Death filled my apartment. My thoughts moved quickly, too quickly. Then the fog arrived. The smoky air was infused with the misery of my recently deceased aunt and I squeezed my eyes shut against her tiny wraith. Opening them, my eyes stung from the sunny, gelatinous air, thick with smoke and spirits. Raw from insomnia and free floating ideas, I nourished myself with caffeine and cigarettes. I couldn’t sleep. I tried to drive and didn’t feel safe. Desperate, I called a self proclaimed spiritual healer.

Undoubtedly well intentioned, he led me through a guided meditation. Convinced that I’d blacked out, I felt that he’d put me under deep hypnosis without my knowledge or consent. His oils perfumed the opaque, smoke filled air. Trying to grip at reason, I squinted at a new sight. Against the white walls, a bright yellow light emanated from his body. The light covered him completely, stretching outward around his head in rays of light.

Great, I thought, I am now batshit insane.

I felt a deep throbbing pain in my chest and stomach when I gave payment and he left. I did not stop pacing. Had to get away, couldn’t go, couldn’t stay, had to pray. Made a call, met a wall, seethed with rage, crashed the wall. Cool, calm comfort met with frantic, manic panic. One breath in, one breath out… Head down, soothed by the voice, I found some calm. One breath in, one breath out…My heart was aching, splitting apart. Warmed by the voice of gravity, I kept still as I leaned on the counter, listening to a familiar story. One breath in, one breath out…Guards struck down, the universe rained down karmic candy.

Off the phone and alone, I was unable to regulate my breathing. Buried under blankets, there was no difference between night and day. I cried, my tears failing to bring the relief of exhaustion and eventual sleep that they would have if my body were better regulated. I became more alert, vigilant, a taut wire ready to snap. I was at ground zero. I was a wasteland. I bled toxic waste.

I pulled off the pillow that I’d buried my face under when, for the third time, a woman I’d house sat for a few weeks prior, Elizabeth, left a message.

“Don’t you want to get paid?”

I picked up the phone and told her plainly that it wasn’t safe for me to drive. She brought to her house where her kids gave me treats as I wept at their kitchen table. I stood up and and wandered lost into the playroom, stepping around a minefield of toys.

A psychologist friend of hers pulled some strings to have me taken to Eastern Long Island Hospital to be evaluated. Elizabeth drove me, stating that I was the “most pleasant mentally ill person” she’d ever been with. Once at the hospital, I wasn’t so pleasant, calling the evaluating psychiatrist by a profane name. Locked in the ward, I was diagnosed with a “mixed bipolar episode,” meaning I was both depressed and manic at the same time. Medicated with pills that had the look and smell of pink candy. I was knocked to my knees in subjugation, praying to the lords of psychotropic drugs.

Living In The Hamptons By Julia Leef

Dan — Mon, 26 Nov 2012 21:46:49 +0000

Living in the Hamptons

By Julia Leef Hi. My name is Julia, and I live in theHamptons. Now, I’m sure you’ve got a lot of questions for me, so I’ll do my best to answer them as best I can.

No, I’m not rich. No, I don’t live in a big fancy mansion by the beach. Yes, a lot of famous people have houses out here, but I haven’t had many celebrity-sightings myself (though pretty much everyone I know has seen Alec Baldwin at some point). Yes, the roads are a nightmare during the summer. I say ‘coffee,’ not ‘cah-fee.’ It’s pronounced ‘ci-ti-ot.’

Oh how I wish I was exaggerating, but sadly, these are the FAQs I get whenever I mention my hometown,Southampton. I remember one conversation I had a few years ago with someone at a college I was visiting (which, funnily enough, ended up being the one I enrolled in a year later). It went something like this:

“So where are you from?”

“I live inSouthampton.”

“Wait, you mean theHamptons? So that means you’re rich, right?”

Nowadays, and mostly because of that incident (during which the guy repeatedly insisted that I, being from the Hamptons, must therefore be rich), I just tell people I’m from Long Island. That way, I usually only get the question about the accent. You know, the whole ‘If you’re from Long Islanddoes that mean you have an accent?’ bit. I don’t know, I’ve been talking to you for the past fifteen minutes so does it sound like I have an accent to you?

Well, it doesn’t annoy me as much as it used to. Actually, I kind of find the stereotypes amusing now, like an inside joke between all the year-round residents. I’m sure some of you have heard of Royal Pains? That show about a concierge doctor who treats the rich and famous people of the Hamptons? It portrays the lives of people with giant mansions, oodles of cash, and the free time and resources to throw dozens of parties the size of Kate and William’s wedding reception. Not that those crowds don’t exist, but the way the show makes it out, that’s how everyone around here lives. We’re a bit more than just the rich and beautiful, you know.

My family and I like to play ‘spot what’s wrong with this picture’ whenever we watch Royal Pains. Even people who aren’t familiar with the show might remember the film crew that came toSouthampton last April to shoot a scene involving a Jitney crash outsideAgawamPark. My brother and I took particular pleasure in pointing out all the little inaccuracies of that scene (for example, a Hampton Jitney with elbow- and leg-room). I’ve yet to spot a single local on that show (other than our esteemed Mayor of Southampton, who had a special guest appearance at the aforementioned bus crash), but I still watch it, partly for the joy of making fun of it and partly in the hopes of catching those rare shots that actually show parts of eastern Long Island instead of Huntington.

Because even though the stereotypes and assumptions sometimes drive me crazy, I still love living in theHamptons. I love our beaches, even when they’re overcrowded with tourists sporting beach cabanas instead of the regular chair and umbrella. I love all the towns from Westhampton to Montauk, despite the terrifying prices on display (I once saw a dress marked at one million as a joke–I think the actual price was only about half that). I love going to the movies in Hampton Bays, catching a show atBay StreetinSag Harbor, and yelling at the idiots who swerve in front of me in the middle of rush hour traffic onMontauk Highway. I love driving downDune Roadand admiring the architecturally stunning mansions I’ll never be able to dream of affording (even if Calvin Klein did knock down my favorite one). I love getting ice cream inEast Hampton, playing mini-golf in Montauk, my inability to get a cell phone signal inNorth Sea, and the fact that no matter where I am there always seems to be deer around. I love the hectic summers and the quiet winters. I love being a local fromSouthampton.

The Spirit Of Mecox Bay By Jude Hofmann

Dan — Mon, 26 Nov 2012 21:43:06 +0000

THE SPIRIT OF MECOX BAY

By Jude Hofmann

Eden was born, bred and raised in a modest neighborhood in Queens where life had been mostly unkind to her. Ahhhh but, even cruelty has a way of turning dreadful fortune into something spectacular IF you keep your faith alive and if you believe in the miracle of the lofty summer reeds that blow by the wind of Mecox Bay.

She arrived on the East End with two shabby suitcases in tow. A distant relative had left Eden a picturesque house on Mecox Road in the opulent town of Bridgehampton.

So….after two tumultuous subway rides, a long hike on the LIRR and a taxi, she had finally arrived! This new home was as foreign to her as if she had stepped foot on the moon. Wealth, class, style and wow, was it ever beautiful. Eden was intoxicated by the sumptuous heartbeat of the town right from the start. The men and women here were skinny and ravishing. Just perfect! Their children, their dogs, the cars they drove, the houses they lived in, everything was grand!

One day she took her bicycle down Mecox Road where the road meets the water. There he was, amidst the reeds, the most striking man she ever did see. Everything looked golden and hazy. The luminous hues looked like God dipped His paint brush in tones of sepia and created this sort of paragon. It was like looking through amber glass, even the water had a burnished glow.

He wore a hat and had a basket flung across his back. She squinted and raised her hand to her eyes and watched him digging oysters, flinging them into the basket with precision aim. She walked her bicycle closer to the water and stood near him, lifting her face toward the sun. When their eyes met, he tipped his hat at her. Ridiculously handsome. Dark, brooding eyes, long ebony hair with tumbling tendrils spilling out from beneath his hat.

She looked down, shyly, at her toes submerged in the spongy water and noticed that the bottom of her long dress was soaked by the golden sea. When their eyes met again, she smiled up at him with sun flecks peeping through the design of her straw hat. It cast speckled sun patterns that danced upon the bridge of her nose. Her long honey dipped hair caught every ray of the sun.

“My name is Bursala, ….please to make your acquaintance” he wiped his hand on his trousers then took hers and kissed her finger tips. She giggled “Hi, I’m Eden.” And with that introduction, the skies opened wide and rain began to hammer down upon them. Thunder and lightning lit up the skies. It was the prettiest thing she had ever seen. She tilted her face toward the heavens and when she looked back toward him he was gone. She looked to her right, to her left. Behind her. She was alone with the reeds swaying in the rain.

The next day Eden hopped on her bicycle and headed down to the bay. Through the blinding, ardent sun, she saw him perched upon a rock. He was delighted to see her and waved her over. She lifted her long sun dress and shifted through the reeds and climbed up beside him. He was reading a book, sonnets by Shakespeare. She studied his face. Sturdy, strong, teeth so white against sun kissed, brown skin. A soft shadow of a beard along his jaw line chiseled his face. His hair was loose and a soft summer breeze blew it all around them. He read these words aloud:

‘When he shall die, cut him out into little stars,… all the world will be in love with night, and pay no worship to the garish sun.’

“That’s from Romeo and Juliet” Eden sighed and Bursala nodded.

He set his book down, stripped off his clothing and dove in to the beckoning bay. She was surprised by his sudden decision, but her eyes never left him. He motioned her in, ”Join me, the water is beautiful!” He tossed his head to one side, his hair whipped behind him. His tanned skin was as wet and smooth as polished stone.

Eden demurely slipped off her dress and she stood there in her nakedness. He was completely mesmerized by her voluptuous, full figure. She dipped her toe into the water but Bursala wouldn’t hear of such nonsense. He playfully grabbed her by the waist, pulled her out deeper and they spent the day frolicking and splashing under a perfumed topaz sky.

He reached out his hand and traced the features of her face with his fingertips. Their faces were close, now, oh so close. There was a slight hesitation at first, but then he kissed her like she had never been kissed before. He twisted his hands up in her long, wet hair. He breathed into her “Ohhh Eden, I knew from the moment I saw you …. I just knew….”

The Millstone Tavern By Joyce DeCordova

Dan — Mon, 26 Nov 2012 21:41:02 +0000

THE MILLSTONE TAVERN, MOM AND THE PINK CADILLAC

By Joyce DeCordova

The time was the ’60′s and The Millstone Tavern was a naughty place. Located in

Noyac opposite the now defunct race track, it was the first gay bar in the

Hamptons. Straights were allowed in (there was a bouncer at the door) but

basically they provided cover for the gay men who came there mainly from the city.

Being gay was a definite no-no then, but, if you were gay, The Millstone Tavern

was your kind of place. You could speak freely, dance, drink and pick up or not.

The Tavern was built on sand and looked like a bunker which, given the

unfriendliness of the locals, was probably a good idea. It was approximately 30×80

feet. The floor was a cement slab, it had a flat roof and the sides were made of

cinderblock. It had no aesthetics except for the bar which was30 feetlong and

made of mahogany plus a jukebox and a mirror ball. It had two bathrooms,

although the girl’s bathroom was hardly necessary and rarely used.

Men would dance together to the music of the jukebox and since there were

straights at the Tavern, they also had line dancing led by the owner’s sister.

Everyone did the Hully Gully and rocked and rolled until the wee hours. The music

was loud, but that was okay. There were no other houses on the road. It was

nowhere and yet there were nights when you were turned away because of the

crowds. Being nowhere gave it privacy and because it was in the middle of an

unlit & deserted road miles from town, It felt like a place where anything could

happen… and it did.

So how did my mother arrive at the Millstone? At the place where anything could

happen? My husband bought it in the 80′s and used it mainly for storage. He

bought and sold estates back then and needed a place. When we got together in

the early 90′s, we decided to convert the Tavern into a home. We put down

porcelain tile floors (2200 square feetof it). We made a kitchen, put in fireplaces

and an 8ft high wrought iron door was placed in front. The sand outside was

mixed with wood chips and stones were laid, bushes were planted and we moved

in…the three of us. My husband and I and my 90 year old mother. I was her only

child, so where ever I went, she went. She had lived in the city her entire life and

we brought her to “nowhere” but that was okay with her because she was with

me and that made her feel happy and secure. I was still working then and I was

staying in the City three days a week. That left my husband with my mom. He

loved her and the feeling was mutual and, knowing that she was unused to

country living and being somewhat frightened by the isolation of it all (“Where

were the cars? Don’t people walk around here?” It’s so quiet here, I can’t sleep”),

he stayed at the house as much as he could while I was away. But there were

times when he had to go out.

Sometimes he would take her, sometimes not. The day of the pink Cadillac

convertible was one of those days when he left her at home alone.

He told her he would be back within the hour. He was always apprehensive when

he left her alone because she was beginning to get forgetful, and saying someone

called on the phone when they didn’t or forgetting to turn off the burner on the

stove, so he hurried back and asked her if anything had happened while he was

gone. There were no calls she said, but she did have a visit. Four Japanese men in

black suits driving a pink Cadillac convertible came by. They were lost and asked if

they could use the phone and she let them in. “Oh boy” he thought, this is the

beginning of the end. She’s really losing it. She’s becoming delusional. He called

me at work and told me about it. He was concerned and so was I. We spoke about

Out East By Joshua McCuen

Dan — Mon, 26 Nov 2012 21:36:55 +0000

Out East

By Joshua McCuen

PortJeffersoncan neither be defined asEastern Long Islandnor a commuter town toManhattan. Somewhat lost, it lays halfway between Orient Point andNew York Cityon the north shore. PortJeffersonis where I spent the first eighteen years of my life. The town itself is situated like a bowl tipped to the harbor; to leave means taking a boat or climbing one of the hills surrounding the town. At the southern edge,Main Streetruns down the hill like a river, finding the lowest point and flowing to the harbor, where it forks its path before the open mouth of theBridgeportferry. The side streets flow intoMainlike estuaries, and it is on one of those side streets where I grew up. Just a few steps from downtown, just high enough on the hill to see the harbor water mixing with the Sound, the house was set perfectly for someone who wished to explore by foot.

Like anyone who has spent a great deal of time in one place, the lay of the land became imprinted deep inside me. From year to year, the landscape of the town, from rusty fire hydrant to cracked slabs of cement, became richer in specifics. Street names acted as talismans, a gentle reminder of how far I was from home. There were the dead ends along the hills overlooking the harbor, the widow walks lost amongst the trees. There was the basketball court, just a stone’s throw from Village Hall, right past the creek that could be leapt across at low tide. Put upon the grid of the town is memory: conversations on benches, practical jokes played at work, a meal in the backyard with family. So attached to place, it is only natural that a walk through Port Jefferson as an adult brings these memories to the forefront. Diminutive and grand, they fight for space with each step, overlapping, erasing, blurring, aggrandizing and belittling each recollection until everything becomes a walking kaleidoscope of back, middle and foreground.

PortJeffersonbecame a palimpsest, memory upon memory overlaid and crisscrossed, the same pages written over again and again to where memories both big and small fight for my attention. As I walk the same streets today, I wonder how something so inconsequential could jump to the forefront, and how another thing so important could be practically forgotten. How is it that the weight of memory changes? How can a leaf falling off a tree in a friend’s backyard eclipse seeing a man crash a motorcycle along High Street? These recollections shift not by reason but by whimsy.

When a child, my family every-so-often decided to head “out east.” Definitively a nebulous term, I always had a great love for its meaning. It didn’t denote a destination. Rather, it was simply a direction we chose to take, the stopping point of the trip never decided upon until reached. I think if my parents ever suggested a set place to go, I wouldn’t have been so keen for the drive out there. The destination would limit what we could see and where we could go. As in my youthful walks in Port Jefferson, I’d rather let the road, and chance, dictate where I went. I preferred “out east” for its lack of limits; to use the term meant that the possibilities were endless.

As an adult, going east with my parents still allows for escape. Away from Manhattan, my present, and further away from Port Jefferson, my past, the open spaces out east afford me a respite. Though, of course, on the drive out a memory or two is still ingrained upon me. The first isDavis’ Peach Farm, which once stood on the southern side of Route 25A. I still remember the neat rows of trees along the side of the road. A faded white sign was propped up on the roof of the building past the trees, the ‘Open’ flag waving from a pole dwarfed by a street. In my mind, we pass it and I can see each row, each individual tree, but as I turn my head to look back and read the sign, the past is erased by the present: the farm was replaced long ago by tract housing. All signs of the farm have been written over. Memory and reality do battle, and I wonder how much longer the past stays with me before being waylaid by the present. Might the memory of the trees all in a row be one day usurped by the image of duplicate houses aligned in almost the same manner? Or will I always see double when we pass this stretch of road?

Snow Day By Joseph Trezza

Dan — Mon, 26 Nov 2012 21:33:49 +0000

Snow Day

By Joe Trezza

Rare birds are the ultimate puppet-masters.

Whether it be a dazzling harlequin duck in North Dakota or a mountain bluebird – as it is on this cold January day – misplaced just outside the old airport in Calverton, thousands of miles from its home, our feathered friends have the innate ability to show up where we least expect and in turn, to thrust us completely from our everyday lives in an attempt to see them.

The power is this tiny thrust is exceptionally fascinating. No more than eight inches long, it harnesses the pulling power of the Moon. Somewhere in its delicate frame it finds the strength to drag two dozen hardy souls from several states in the dead of winter out to the front of a frozen strip of pines outlining a one lane highway that leads to the end of the world. On the side of this highway they stand, bundled and shivering. Arsenals of binoculars point across the road at the chain fence surrounding a vacant field the bird has been frequenting, locked, loaded and ready to shoot, for hours upon the bird’s return. Dozens of birders have braved the weather over the past week to get a glimpse of the bluebird, which is making its first appearance in New York State in seven years.

The wind starts to pick up and shake the pines behind us. A mustached birder on the far end of the strip, here all the way from Massachusetts, turns around to peer into a small opening in the vegetation. Everything is hunkered down in the underbrush, hiding as much from the temperature as they are for the sharp-shinned hawk that makes a flying pass over the area every fifteen minutes or so. When something winged darts up momentarily into the clearing ten opportunistic birders, strung out on the disappointment of the no-show bluebird, rush to the scene with bins in hand, anxious to see if the commotion will result in some sort of consolation prize. Then the dust settles. I’ve never seen people get so worked up over a white-throated sparrow.

Ricky and I have driven in from the city. We’ve both seen mountain bluebird before, years ago out west, so we’re not as desperate as Mustache Man for the little sucker to show. Still a rare bird is an event and an excuse to get out, so we made the trip, joining the rest of the people puppets at around 9 am.

They move whenever something moves, even if there’s no chance at it being the bird. Mountain bluebirds are sky blue and like open areas with space to catch insects. If this one’s around, he’ll stick out against the winter sky like a squirrel on skates. What nobody seems to get is that he won’t be in the trees behind us or in the shrubs below them. They keep turning around.

Hours pass. This bird isn’t showing up; I start to tell people that. Most shoot back dirty looks but one agrees, a nice older man in mittens, who tells us about a snowy owl seen earlier in the morning at Montauk Point.

Snowy owls are rare in southern New York. In fact, they only come down from up north when lemming populations plummet on their arctic feeding grounds. Every five years or so these “interruptive” winters happen and birders rejoice. But even then, many who find owls won’t report their locations because they think photographers will scare them away. It’s only through lucky word-of-mouth that most birders hear about snowys. By the time noon rolls around we dip on the bluebird and head east.

Montauk. To some it’s the edge of civilization. Over one hundred miles from Manhattan, the Island’s race to the sea finally ends in a town so small it holds more millionaires than pizzerias. The famously picturesque lighthouse at its very point fittingly represents the place’s opulence.

Even more impressive than the beachside mansions is the sea itself, whose northern and southern waves meet below the lighthouse, resulting in a clash of watery titans that need to be seen to be believed. Cold ocean waters from the east and south mesh violently with warmer currents pushed out of the Sound, creating some of the most treacherous surf swells this side of Cape Hatteras.