Letters to the Editor: 05.29.97

At Mercy Of The Sea

Montauk

May 26, 1997

To The Editor:

It is with all the sincerity and respect in the world that I write this letter on behalf of the men and women of the Montauk Coast Guard station.

I have lived in Montauk over 30 years, and, along with my mother and father, I have run a family boatyard and boat rental business. My family has witnessed many storms and tragedies and has always had the highest respect for the Montauk Coast Guard station for the many times they have had to go out in the worst of conditions to respond to a call of someone in distress.

I've never called a mayday in my life, until May 16. A friend and I were caught in a storm 10 miles east-northeast of the Montauk Lighthouse, in a 23-foot Seacraft that took a beating from cresting 10 to 12-foot waves. We got to within five miles of the light when increasing winds and wave heights broke on my boat. The engine went under, and we were at the mercy of the sea. There was not a boat in sight, as my friend, Bob Bushman, and I ran to the bow hoping to counterbalance the water in the submerged stern of the boat.

Now broadside to intensifying waves and winds and holding tight to the bow railing, we radioed in a mayday to the Coast Guard. They immediately responded by radio, and, not knowing at what moment we were going to be overturned, I gave my approximate location and situation. They kept in contact and comforted us by letting us know they were under way.

They had other distress calls at the same time. For the next 20 minutes, we sat there, not knowing if we were going to make it. Their constant communication comforted us somewhat. Their 44-footer reached us in seas that were too rough for them to take us aboard. We secured a line, and the two-and-a-half-hour tow home, at three knots, began.

During this time, three young girls in a sailboat were rescued about five miles east of us, and my friend's father lost his life, when his 38-foot boat capsized near Lion Head Rock, by East Hampton.

I do not know how my boat wasn't rolled over by the waves, and I, in retrospect, do not know how the 44 and its crew got to us so fast. Hearing them, seeing them, and then being with them was a feeling of comfort you could only know if you were in our shoes.

Many things change over the years, but these two things haven't and never will. That is, first, the dedication, skill, and responsiveness of the members of Montauk Coast Guard Station, and, second, my family's respect for them.

Thank you very much.

Sincerely,

HENRY UIHLEIN

The Eunuch Party

East Hampton

May 22, 1997

Dear Mrs. Rattray,

Whew! it was a close call, but the Air Force has saved me from Kelly Flinn.

They are right. We cannot afford to have an adulterer with a finger on the nuclear button.

Thanks to our courageous Air Force, this is no longer a danger.

I am particularly grateful to the Air Force Chief of Staff, Gen. Donald Fogelman, who made it clear to the nation and his underlings who would serve as judges on any court martial that he already knew Lieutenant Flinn to be guilty as charged. I can only hope that, in similar moments of national peril, Chief Justice Rehnquist of the United States Supreme Court will find within himself the same courage to express his opinion on the guilt or innocence of persons awaiting trial in civilian courts.

The morality of our country has sunk to a new low. We need such leadership.

Goodness gracious me, have we been lucky. What about our known-to-have-been-adulterous Presidents, Kennedy and Johnson? Their finger was on the nuclear button too. Really on it. And we have survived nearly five years of Clinton with only three, at the most, to go.

But we must not relax our vigilance. There is a solution. The Eunuch Party. Only certified eunuchs and clitororeductives will be allowed higher office or to serve in the Air Force, though exceptions might be made for people past the age of 85 so long as they do not come from Sag Harbor, where there is known to be a lot of zinc in the water.

During its first week in office, the Eunuch Party will issue an executive order to destroy all memorials to past leaders who are known to have been sack-hoppers. They will therefore blow up the Jefferson and Franklin Roosevelt Memorials, and whatever happens to be around for Harding, Cleveland, and those guys. Then, with our reliable all-eunuch Air Force we will nuke England, France, Russia, Pakistan, Israel, China, and any other nuclear nation whose leaders are non-eunuch and therefore not to be trusted with their fingers on the nuclear button.

Sincerely,

RICHARD ROSENTHAL

Letter Home From Boynton Beach

May 22, 1997

Dear Editor,

Conclusion

In the '20s, when Prohibition was the law of the land, a new form of entertainment and relaxation commenced to creep in the homes of America. It was called radio. Estimated sales, in the early years of the decade, were over $60 million. By 1929, they had soared to over $800 million.

The first radio that I recall listening to was a crystal set assembled by Uncle Everett, Father's younger brother. As it did not have a speaker, we took turns listening through an earphone. The static, at times, was horrendous, making reception difficult to comprehend. The sound vacillated. First, it was so faint, it could barely be heard, and then suddenly, it would peak to a crescendo. Nevertheless, we listened, for on the morrow we wanted to boast that we had received KDKA, Pittsburgh, WLS, Chicago, WPG, Atlantic City, or WGY, Schenectady.

In a short time, radios with built-in speakers became the rage, causing radio sales to steadily increase. Shortly, radios, installed within attractive cabinets, became part of the living room furniture arrangement. In the beginning, the broadcasting of music played an important role in promoting radio sales and would continue up through the Hit Parade years. Phonograph sales boomed as recordings of popular songs, first heard over the airwaves, increased. With nearly everybody humming or whistling the popular tunes of the day, hand-cranked 78 R.P.M. phonographs began to enter many households.

In our home, we listened, among others, to recordings of Paul Whiteman's "Three O'Clock in the Morning," Irving Berlin's "Always," "What'll I Do," and "All Alone." Who, of the folks who recall those years, can forget Frank Crumit's recording of "Ramona," or Gene Austin's "My Blue Heaven"?

Sad ballads, such as "The Death of Floyd Collins," "Wreck of Old 97," and "The Prisoner's Song," were very popular in the mid-'20s. The granddaddy of all the ballad singers was Henry Burr. Often, my cousin, Bob Rickett, and I would reminisce about the times we would snicker at our dear Grandmother Hawkins, as she wiped away the tears while she listened to Henry Burr's rendition of "The Baggage Coach Ahead," or John McCormack's recording of "Mother McCree."

Although radio became a part of our lives, we did not become shut-ins. People continued to visit each other in the evenings and went to the silent movies and early talkies.

Television had a different and greater impact because people, once home, rarely left the house after dinner. They seemed to have become mesmerized with the tube, despite faulty reception.

One Friday night in early '48, I went to Cavagnaro's Bar to watch a Friday night fight coming from Madison Square Garden via Channel 6 in New Haven. After the bout was under way, Mrs. Cavagnaro came in and looked for a moment or two at the set.

She turned and said to George, her son, "Those two men must be crazy."

"What do you mean, Mama? That's a boxing match we're watching," he responded.

"Any two men who would fight in a snowstorm have to be crazy," she added.

Another pastime, which I enjoyed immensely, was going to the East Hampton Free Library. In an era when television lay far in the future, there wasn't much for a young person to do in the evening other than to read or listen to the radio. Most school kids went to the movies only on Saturday afternoons. The cold months, November through April, were called the quiet months, because most boys and girls remained at home in the evenings, except on every other Friday night, when the girls and boys basketball teams played at home.

Usually, I read until bedtime, and if the book was exceptionally interesting, I'd read by flashlight beneath the bed covers. In our home, when it was time for "lights out," lights were extinguished, and there were no ifs, ands, or buts.

Library hours, back then, were from 2 p.m. to 5 p.m., Mondays through Saturdays, and on Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday evenings, from 7 p.m. to 9 p.m. We were allowed to borrow three books for a period of two weeks. If overdue, a fine of one cent was levied on each book for each day overdue. Rain, snow, or blow did not prevent me from going to the library.

In the late '20s, when I commenced to go to the library, Miss Ettie Hedges was the librarian. Miss Hedges graduated from East Hampton High School in 1895, with May Conklin, Mary G. Strong, Bessie Gay, and Edmund Tillinghast. She became librarian in the summer of 1898, and continued into the '50s, long after her marriage to Morton Pennypacker.

Mr. Pennypacker was a noted Long Island historian and spent his time in the Long Island room of the library. He is credited for discovering the identity of Gen. George Washington's principal spy in the New York City area, Samuel Culper Jr. Culper was really Robert Townsend, a prominent resident of Manhattan and highly respected by the British, who were occupying the city. Washington did not know Culper's true identity, nor did he want to.

Samuel Culper Sr. was a rebel spy, who operated the Secret Road, which was a route from Manhattan through Brooklyn and on to the Hempstead Plains. From there, the road continued to Miller Place, and across Long Island Sound, in whaleboats to Connecticut. Culper Sr. was the code name for Abraham Woodhull. Bruce Lancaster wrote an interesting fictional account of that Long Island network in his book "The Secret Road."

Grace Miller and Florence Mulford, sisters of Maude Miller and Cortland Mulford, respectively, worked in the library for many years, where they added an old-fashioned charm to an already charming establishment.

At times, the library was so quiet, the silence was deafening, that is, until after Miss Hedges became Mrs. Pennypacker. On afternoons, while people were browsing through books, and the library was as quiet as a tomb, the silence and serenity was shattered by Mr. Pennypacker shouting at the top of his voice, "ETTIE!" Almost immediately, footsteps would be heard hastening to the Long Island Room. Oh, what memorable days of my boyhood and youth.

If there had been a good snowfall, the kids would bring out their Flexible Flyers and other brand-name sleds and go to DeWitt Talmage's hill next to the railroad tracks, near the North Main Street trestle. Another nice place, equally as good, was the hill behind Stanley Bennett's house on Cedar Street. Some of the more daring boys and girls went to Oakview Highway to slide from the Miller Lane East intersection to the Three Mile Harbor Road. Traffic, back then, was not a problem as it is today, and none of the boys and girls were ever injured.

Drivers of automobiles were more courteous and forgiving and honked car horns less frequently 60 to 70 years ago than today. During those years, Ed Sherrill, a local dairyman, would drive a herd of cows from his dairy on Springs Road, down North Main Street to Cedar Street. Then he'd herd them up Cedar Street to his Cooper Lane pasture, where the new section of Cedar Lawn Cemetery is today, or to his other pasture on the north side of Cedar Street near Cooper Lane. At 3:30 p.m. he would herd them back to his barn to be milked.

Can anyone imagine what would happen today? Why, the horns would be blowing, the cows running everywhere, and poor Ed going nearly crazy, trying to keep his herd from stampeding. People would be threatening him with lawsuits because he was denying them their constitutional rights. Poor Ed would be in a pickle with no way out. The old-timers gave little thought to the delay. It was just another day in their lives.

When heavy rains fell on frozen ground and formed ponds in the fields, often they would freeze over. Ice skaters took advantage of their good fortune and enjoyed a day or two of skating and an attempt at a few games of hockey. Usually, though, a thaw would come within a day or two, ending ice skating, until the next big rain and subsequent freeze, which did not occur all that frequently.

In the middle to late '30s, the Neighborhood House sponsored activity nights for local men, women, boys, and girls. Wednesday nights were reserved for the boys. We played basketball, pinochle, shot a few games of pool, and read in the small reading room. To some, the main attraction was playing the player-piano. There were a fair number of music rolls of popular songs from the middle teens to the early '30s. One person, happy-go-lucky Morris Hettiger, loved to play those old songs. His favorite was "I Can't Give You Anything But Love, Baby." My, how he could make those pedals jump, as he played that song. Today, when I hear that song, I think of Morris and those long ago Wednesday evenings at the Neighborhood House.

Miss Josephine Oberhauser, known by all as Miss "O," was mistress of the Neighborhood House for many years. She supervised all the girls and boys activities and went with the girls on hikes to Maidstone Park and Springy Banks. She was a stern disciplinarian, but gentle in her demeanor.

Looking back over the years, I believe the 1938 Hurricane did more to destroy the physical beauty of East Hampton's Main Street than any other single factor, including the Dutch Elm disease. In a matter of a few short hours, the tempest destroyed 139 stately elm trees on Main Street, from Woods Lane to Hook Mill Green. Prior to that awful and unforgettable day, Main Street was a huge arched roadway, as majestic elms, on both sides of the broad thoroughfare, extended their huge limbs and leafy branches to form a shaded corridor. Each time a person entered East Hampton at Woods Lane and Town Pond and proceeded slowly toward Hook Mill, he was overwhelmed with the magnificence he beheld. Never was there a more lovely entrance to a village in this vast land. It is too bad that people who have made East Hampton their home since that terrible day were not among those who have perceived the elegance and grace that once dominated East Hampton's historical district.

East Hampton's beauty did not occur wholly as a result of a natural phenomenon. The early settlers, through some form of foresight, laid out a wide thoroughfare and adequate-sized lots which fronted on each side. Later generations planted the magnificent elms that graced each side after they had attained maturity. In 1895, a group of conscientious and civic-minded ladies came forth and founded the Ladies Village Improvement Society. It proved to be an instrument that was necessary to nurture the elegance that reached its fullness just prior to that fateful day in September 1938. Each time, as I walked along the dirt walkway on the west side of Main Street on my way to the library, I could not help but be awed by its beauty. Each walk in itself made going to the library worthwhile.

One of the most important reasons why East Hampton was such a wonderful place to grow up was its large number of friendly, ordinary, and down-to-earth residents. Most of them were hard-working and honest. Their names were their bond, and a handshake sealed a bargain. Back then, no one was running to a lawyer to sue his neighbor for the slightest infraction.

It was a pleasure to walk the village streets, knowing nearly everyone who passed you by. Family life was solid, even through difficult times, such as those of the Great Depression. As a result of strong family ties, the nation prospered, which was one of the reasons why the country was so closely united during the days of World War II. "Single parent" was an expression never heard, although some single parents did exist. When the majority of the kids came from school, their mothers were at home to greet them. We were fortunate to have been so blessed. Most boys and girls of that era credit their mothers for guiding them through difficult as well as happy times. That guidance enabled them to become responsible adults.

I feel extremely grateful to have grown up in such a wonderful, pleasant, and amiable environment. Those plain, friendly, and charitable people, now long dead, made East Hampton such an exceptional community. We learned to think well, and what we did was, for the most part, innocent and honest. It was good wholesome fun and laughter. Perhaps the most pleasant sound to be heard in this world is the laughter of happy children.

When we arrived home from school, we changed into old clothing before going out to play, for we were lucky to have more than one change of school clothes. Many kids were seen with patches on their school clothes, as well as on their play clothes, but they didn't care, for life was sweet to them.

I have described living in East Hampton, as I remember it, during my boyhood and youthful years of the '20s and '30s. I do not believe a better community existed for a youngster to grow up in. Bitter recollections are few and mostly forgotten, but the rich and sweet memories of those happy years remain.

Sincerely,

NORTON (BUCKET) DANIELS

This letter concludes Mr. Daniels's series about his boyhood in East Hampton, but readers who have enjoyed his recollections need not despair. He has promised to continue the history lessons with his memories of World War II and the effects of its aftermath on his hometown.

At this juncture, however, it is time to correct a few typographical errors that have crept into Mr. Daniels's letters. In the May 1 Star, Lewis Seitz was misidentified as Lewis Spitz. Louis Ialacci's clothing store was in the Barney Panzer building, not the Pander building, on Newtown Lane. In the May 15 Star, a typographical error greatly exaggerated the 17 flat tires an unfortunate motorist suffered while on a Sunday drive. And Mr. Daniels wished to clarify that Two Holes of Water Road, where he and his friends went to cut a Christmas tree, was a two-rut wagon path as all roads in Northwest Woods were at that time. Ed.