August 21, 2007--Requiem

The first sign of the end— Marie, whose people have lived in the area since the mid seventeenth century, complained to us one day that her son was moving up-island since, with his growing family, he could not afford to buy a house. We took this personally since we had a weekend home in the area and were thus in part responsible for the inflation in real estate prices. The second sign— Others who had fished the ocean and bays, also for 350 years, were being pushed into bankruptcy and despair when the state forbid them from pursuing their ancient craft of ocean seining—fishing for striped bass from the beaches by rowing nets out into the open ocean and then pulling them and their catch back to the strand. It was claimed that the baymen were depleting the fishing grounds out of an excessive desire to bring these valuable fish to market. They in turn claimed that they were being forced from their livelihoods because real estate interests wanted to clear the beaches of their battered lorries and boats so that surf casters could have unimpeded access to the water and beachfront property owners could have clear views of the sunrise. The next sign— Where there had been a smoke shop for generations, a morning gathering place to get a cup of coffee, buy cigarettes, and pick up newspapers the proprietors were pleased to set aside for you, when its final lease expired the building’s owner quadrupled the rent and it was quickly replaced by a Ralph Lauren store where knitted sweaters start at $500 a copy. And after that— The Springs Country Store, which was just down the road from Jackson Pollack’s house and where he could get his beers on credit, changed hands and soon began to sell pâté for $12 a pound and in place of Jackson’s Pabst Blue Ribbons stocked the latest in designer lagers and ales. Another sign— Farmers who found themselves so mired in debt when it came time to pass 40 acres to sons and daughters were susceptible to offers to subdivide so that faux shingle-style quickly came to replace potato fields. Who could blame them when the going price was more than a half a million per acre? Then— The hedge fund guys showed up, wouldn’t look at a place unless it was listed at at least $10 million, and transported to the area their New York crowd, their New York taste in restaurants and shops, and their New York parties so if they forgot to look out their oceanfront windows they would think the were still on the Upper East Side. We learned— That Courtney Ross, widow and heir to former Time-Warner CEO Steve Ross bought up all the remaining one hundred burial plots in the fabled Green River Cemetery so that she could parcel them out among her friends who wanted to be laid to eternal rest in close proximity to Jackson Pollack, deKooning, and other New York School worthies. So now the NY Times reports (linked below)— The town crier, and there still is one, instead to passing along the news of the day tells shoppers on Main Street about the genealogy of village real estate: where Tiffany’s is there was for many years Whitman’s Gallery; where London Jewelers is was the Masonic Hall; where there was Dressen’s Meat Market there is now a Calypso shop; Cole Haan used to be Rowe’s Pharmacy; and the Bonne Nuit lingerie store use to house the 5&10. And finally— Calvin Lester, age 54, the last of the legendary baymen, died. He was so good at his work that, as someone at his funeral said, “He could drag a scallop dredge down a driveway and come up with it full of scallops.” In his prime, before the real estate interests ate him alive, there were 150 working the waters; now there are fewer than 20, and there are no young ones among them. So when the last one dies that will be the end of more than a way of making a living; it will be the end of a way of life. And a metaphor for what happened to the Hamptons of these Bonackers and Jackson Pollack and for much of America when money and greed have their unfettered way.