FLASHBACK: 447 Ocean (Summer 2006)

Our fifth house in the Pines was almost as far east as 448 Boulevard and inequitable bedrooms made it challenging to share but we loved the pool.  It got sun all day, something 485 Tarpon had lacked.

 

We hadn't known that Mark, one of our housemates and newly single, would buy the place before the season began.  What would it like be living with our landlord?  That turned out to be the least of my problems.

Nearly everyone from the summer before--including Steven, Randy, Thom and Andrew had returned.  For some reason I didn't take a lot of housemate pictures.

The roof deck offered great views of Casa Debris, with its ever changing cast of characters. Unfortunately, the spiral staircase to get there made it a pain for cocktails although Thom managed to serve a fabulous focaccia as the sun set late one afternoon.

More shore beauty.

There were several colorful guests, too, none of whose names I remember.

Except for Matthew & Wolfie, on his last legs.  Apparently the crew was headed to something called "Brendan Nights."

Long walks appealed to me more than other people's parties.

I negotiated for the least favorable bedroom--an angular sleeping loft off the staircase with a window that didn't open--in return for unrestricted guest privileges.  Florian flew in from Chicago.

He was very happy to be back.

At 52, I long ago had realized darkness and distance were my two best friends.

Chris joined us for another long beach walk.

But leaving Florian at the house on his own for a week during his second visit proved to be a mistake. After I discovered he had hooked up with both a porn star and a reputed Kohler--from the family that made a mint manufacturing bathroom fixtures--our relationship went down the toilet. Lots of drama ensued when I put him on the ferry back to Sayville, several days early.  It personalized a belief I've always held about the Pines:  it's a candy store that can be toxic for couples.

I'd kicked my best pal out of paradise.

You can't beat the Grove for crafty wit!

My days working for the American Red Cross September 11 Recovery Program would come to a planned, well-compensated end in November.  Jeanine, Rosemary and Melvin celebrated their earlier RIF (reduction in force) packages with a day at the beach just before Labor Day.

Gray weather discouraged less intrepid colleagues from making the trip on the LIRR.

But Ted (far right) joined us. Melvin, who had a great eye, took this photo.  Covid killed him in November 2020 after a six-week fight.

Nature, like art, offers a lot of solace.

At the end of the season, developers tore down the Pavilion--where I had spent nearly twenty seasons drinking at high tea and dancing after midnight--to make way for a new nightlife complex, a gym and a store selling prepared foods.  The Pines was definitely changing, and not always in a good way. Holmes never would have approved of serving prepared food for dinner.

But the place never has lost its natural beauty.

FLASHBACK: 485 Tarpon (Summer 2005)

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.

Zeda hadn't yet met Mateo.

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.