After being priced out of our 448 Fire Island Boulevard, our diminished group had almost given up on finding a new house--most were too big or too expensive, or they lacked what Chris called "aspects." But the new place on Tarpon, high on the dune, offered patch views of the ocean and the occasional rainbow.
And Randy brought in four guys a generation younger than me to fill two of the bedrooms. Chris and Patrick, who worked for a white shoe law firm, hit it off immediately.
Marty, Patrick's boyfriend, worked with kids at YMCA on the Upper West Side while pursuing a higher degrees. He's Dr. Forth now. He and Patrick have a son in high school.
I'd already met Andrew and Steven. Andrew, a finance guy, had made an indelible impression, impersonating Britney Spears with a bared midriff.
Steven, an economist, got lunch on the table the first weekend, something I can't recall any other housemate taking responsibility for in more than 15 years of sharing.
Little did I realize then I'd be celebrating my 70th birthday with the New Guard, forever referred to as "the boys" although all but one are past 50 by now. Would you believe Steven and Andrew have both retired already?
There was somebody else new that summer, too: Florian, my new German boyfriend, although I didn't dare call him that. He probably loved the Pines even more than me (sic).
We spent most of our time on the upper level. You can't beat cocktails on the deck!
Unlike our previous houses, this one had little to recommend it other than the length of the season (April through October) and its low cost, split eight ways.
A cardinal house rule had been that guests must sleep in their hosts' bedrooms. Thanks to Thom, Florian got to spend nearly every weekend with me. I can't say I would have been as chill a roommate with the situation.
At least Florian carried his weight. He juggled for the Lego and Tonka
. . . dressed up in crazy outfits
. . . and cooked plenty of meals, occasionally importing food like this carp from Chinatown. No one ever will forget his hot dog soup.
Florian seemed to get on with everyone, too.
Chris joined us for one of our long walks on an extraordinarily hot, sticky day in mid-July, plagued by biting black flies. He called it the Bataan Death March.
We got as far as Ho Hum beach before turning back, with a stop at the Watch Hill Visitor Center. It was the first time for all of us.
Bart returned for a second season. Somehow Mark, his boyfriend, didn't make it into any of the photos. We had a tense relationship.
Florian developed an instant crush on Bart which expressed itself through competitive workouts around a pool that got sun only before noon.
Randy muscled in on the action, too.
No doubt about it, I would have focused my camera on Florian a lot more than on my other housemates even without the antics.
There were other guests, too, all friends of the boys. Matthew joined us for a trip to India a decade later.
Chris introduced us to Jim, a former colleague from the U.S. Department of Justice. And more significantly, a Pines virgin. "If only I could see it through your eyes again," I marveled, not for the first time.
I bought a decorated shell from a young girl selling her chalked creations on Fire Island Boulevard. A decade later we rented her parents' home, our last in the Pines. The rental ended what Chris called our diaspora, which had begun here. After having rented just two houses during the previous 15 years, we would move annually for the next three summers.
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