News that the Maidstone Club, having just gotten a new irrigation system in place for its golf course, now wants to build a new bridge over an upper reach of Hook Pond reminded me of my childhood in East Hampton Village. In those days, the mid-1970s, we could roam a lot more freely than kids can today.
We were going head to head the other day, in a wide-ranging discussion with some other longtime summer people turned almost-year-round, about never-ending construction on our streets and whose lost real estate opportunities and dumb decisions, over the years, were dumbest and lostest.
Frankly, I didn’t know how I could top the “locker room” comments I’d leaked. When would people ever get it, I wondered; I had reviled everyone and everything, and still they believed! I could say anything!
Calling myself a country mouse may sound disingenuous, but the truth is that my knowledge of cinema comes almost entirely from visits to the local Regal and Sag Harbor Cinemas — and at most times of the year I only rarely go to the movies, waiting to hear of a film that is really good.
For those who surf, like me, there should be a moment when we realize that waves like those generated by distant hurricanes which are so pleasurable to us meant death and property loss to others. The paradox should come with a sense of obligation.
The last best hope for America, I’ve always thought, lay with the Kennedys, whose spirit was of the sort that would get us working with each other and for each other, but that was a long time ago, and, yes, in a different country.