I have taken William Floyd Parkway south to Smith Point Beach on Fire Island my entire life. However, we would always stay on highways and the parkway, without really veering off course (save for a Carvel stop on the way home from the beach every now and then).
I have canoed down the Carmans River in Shirley and docked our boats at the Wertheim National Wildlife Refuge. But this is practically all I've known of this peninsular area of south-central Suffolk County.
Putting crime reports aside, a google search of either "Shirley" or "Mastic" will lead you to both towns' village exploration committees' websites. Apparently, community activists in both towns are pushing their respective councils to vote on creating villages of Smith Point and Mastic Beach that would hopefully strengthen the community and focus on its positive aspects, rather than the constant bad press the area receives. According to the website of the same name, the civic organizations in these areas are trying to make them into the "Anti-Hamptons." Well today, I set out to see if that was possible.
I started my foray into the neighborhood by driving down Smith Road in Shirley, which borders the National Wildlife Refuge. Driving through the residential neighborhood, I noticed ranches and two-story houses that were nothing to really speak of. Your average middle-class Long Island household. However, turning onto Carman View Drive, we started to get a sense of the households that are behind the push for the village. Many of these beautiful houses, colonials patriotically flying the American flag, had signs in the front yards proclaiming "We Support the SPVEC Effort." The beauty and expanse of these houses, however, did not expand past this one area of the neighborhood. On Golden Gate Drive, established in 1956, four homes were for sale, and the only houses that really stood out were ones directly on the riverfront.
We passed the Manor of St. George, a mansion that is the only remnant of the land purchased by Colonel William Smith from the Indians in 1691, which included the entire Shirley/Mastic peninsula and land all the way east to Southampton. This historic purchase, easily one of the first major settlements on Long Island, is now relegated to a small mansion hidden in the woods off of a dirt road behind Santatecla Restaurant in Shirley, and happened to be closed on Mondays during the summer. This was the first unfortunate, disappointing discovery of the day.
On to Shirley Beach at Smith's Landing on Grandview Drive, where there was one lifeguard on duty, who spent most of the time we were there fixing his umbrella, and three lifeguards in the recreation room just watching TV or listening to the radio. The beach is a mere 20 feet wide, by maybe 100 yards in length, and the part of the water (the Carmans River) that is bathable is maybe two feet deep. There were 3 kids in the water, 1 black and 2 white, while about a handful of parents/residents sat on the dirty sand and looked on. There was a nice playground, but the sparsity of this beach did not contribute to the allure I was searching for in the proposed Village of Smith Point. It is nice and scenic by the river, but otherwise, the attraction here was relatively minimal.
Shirley's business district mainly being the densely populated William Floyd Parkway, we decided to cross over and head into Mastic Beach, which has signs promoting their business district. Parked at the laundromat, we walked around the town's main street, Neighborhood Road, which doesn't seem to get much daily foot traffic and doesn't have much to offer those who would stop by, like we did. Passing the New York State historical sign documenting the establishment of the Mastic Beach Town Square on July 4th, 1976 "to celebrate the nations' bicentennial [Bicentennial Motto: Beautification-Thru-Historic Endevor] (sic)" and the Village Exploration Committee building (proclaiming "We Support Mastic Beach 'The Village'"), we entered the town of Mastic Beach. Walking past a Handy Pantry, Barbara's Kitchen advertising home cooking, and a barber shop, we went into the sole bar, LinsaTorr's Place.
LinsaTorr's is dark, quiet, and thankfully air-conditioned. There were two men sitting at the bar talking to the flowery-dressed bartender who laughed when I asked to use the restroom, which informed me via the writings on the wall, "Don't f*#@ with grandma." Interesting place. A Bud Light bottle was a surprisingly low $3.50 and we sat in relative silence, admiring the patriotic signs on the walls and listening to the Jagermeister machine powering up. After the old, bearded gentleman saw on the backwards clock (it counted clockwise from 12 to 1) that "it's 12 o'clock already," and the other man left to get food, it was us and the flowered bartender who kept circling the bar looking for something to do.
I took the opportunity, after she got back from a smoke, to ask the bartender about the proposed village of Mastic Beach. Her response, unsurprisingly: "More government is just going to raise my taxes."
"I'm not for it. They're gonna raise my taxes," she repeated.
I asked how she thought it might benefit the town, having more money coming in for development.
"I don't know how." She became shy, somber all of a sudden, like I had given her a 50-question short-answer exam and she didn't know how to answer a single one. "I dunno," she continued. "I just don't want to have to follow their stupid rules like in Patchogue." Patchogue is a town-turned-village that is starting to come around, due to its influx of restaurants and bars, culture centers that bring a positive, younger clientele to the town. There is a blues-music scene that pairs well with a craft beer-drinking scene to whom the development-friendly mayor, Paul Pontieri, keeps catering.
We finished our beers, thanked the flowered bartender, who left us with one remaining thought on the subject: "It's not going to keep the garbage out of Mastic Beach." And she's probably right.
We drove over to the William Floyd Estate, where the signer of the Declaration of Independence once lived, which is now part of the National Parks Service and the Department of the Interior. However, disappointment greeted us once again with closed gates. I never expected a U.S. Government-run division of the NPS national historic landmark to be closed on a Monday afternoon, without any times posted for when it would actually be open. This only further contributed to our dilapidated and dysfunctional view of Mastic Beach so far that day.
Past stop signs with bullet holes in them to Oceanview Drive, lined with shacks, once summer cottages, looking out onto Forge River and the Great South Bay, we arrived at Osprey Park, where half of the dock was under construction, a Link Belt crane sitting in the water off the dock, next to a woman fishing. There was only one osprey nest in plain sight. The park was created as part of the 1996 Clean Air/Water Act, yet the water didn't look all that clean. The family of ducks out in the river was disrupted by a motor boat that drove right through them. Past an Indian man and two kids crabbing or searching for bait fish, a woman smoking at a picnic table (clean air?), a monarch butterfly, and the remnants of a playground, where Journey was playing on a hidden radio, we had seen nary an osprey and enough of this "park."
One right turn off of Mastic Road and you are on the Poospatuck Indian Reservation, population 271, the smallest reservation in the state of New York. Yet, Poospatuck must have the most per-capita smoke shops. The amount, for such a small area of side-streets, was uncanny. Shacks and huge stores. Trading Posts and sheds. All smoke shops. They were even attached to houses and mobile homes. It was incredible. The Poospatucks must have the most thriving business in all of Mastic.
Back on Mastic Road heading north, we stopped at Mike's Place Too just past the train tracks and next to the fire department, where we were drawn in by the Monday special: Buy one burger, get one free. This place was a real down-home American sports bar, with a fire-department border in the men's room, Giants and Yankees memorabilia everywhere, and a guy at the bar doing color commentary about this weekend's Yankees sweep over the Red Sox. My buffalo burger and fries were pretty good, but I definitely enjoyed the atmosphere, where mostly everyone sitting at the bar was a regular who knew the bartender, Nicole's, name and vice-versa. Definitely a place worth checking out in Mastic.
Scratch that...Mikes' Place Too is the only place worth checking out in Mastic, Mastic Beach, and Shirley, the poverty-plagued peninsula formed between the beautiful Carmens and Forge Rivers. My companion Brendan summed up the entire visit by saying, "It seems that there are a lot of community-oriented people here; their communities just suck."
Monday, August 10, 2009
Thursday, August 6, 2009
Bellport, Brookhaven, and Yaphank - friendly LI hamlets and villages
East on Route 27, Sunrise Highway. Pass Hospital Road, don't confuse it for Station Road. If you confuse Hospital for Station, you can get off at Route 101 (Patchogue-Yaphank Road), heading south past Brookhaven Hospital and Best Bargain Books into East Patchogue, where you can hop onto South Country Road heading east. After a few miles, the speed limit changes to 30 mph and there are American flags hanging on the telephone posts, and you know you're in a village, the village of Bellport. Pass the intersection of South Country and Station Road, though, and you have missed the village of Bellport.
Four corners of the village of Bellport, each containing one restaurant and a few shoppes, this town is easy to miss but also easy to like and appreciate for its distinct welcoming community. Founded by Captains Thomas and John Bell in the 1800s, this would-be seaport is now a quiet, cozy community for full-time residents and affluent Manhattanites, seeking to escape the bustling city for laid-back Long Island living.
It's possible to walk the village of Bellport in about 10 minutes, peering into the windows of the village's Natural Pharmacy, on which there is a sign written "No cell phones please - Unless Really Really Really Important" with s smiley face, and reading the menus of the four major restaurants: Avino's Italian Table, Meritage, The Bellport Restuarant, and Porter's on the Lane. We had settled on Porter's, for its "Winesday" specials (more to come on that later), but wanted to breathe in what Bellport had to offer first.
On the northeast corner of Station Road and South Country, there is a store with tons of beach balls in the window. No store name, no awning, just a sign on the door that says "OPEN." Upon entering, we were greeted by random paintings, T-shirts, surfboards, marine paraphernalia, and a man in a tight-fitted beige dress shirt and beard. Quinn, a 20-year old college student at Pratt Institute in Brooklyn, is the "old soul" type, the new-age liberal art student who wants to celebrate the diverse culture of Bellport and Long Island by opening a community showcase, the Halftone Corner Store Cooperative. Everything in the store, which is run by Quinn and two of his friends, all Bellport residents, is made for or designed by local artists/residents. They screen documentaries nightly and have jazz bands perform on the weekends. This showcase represents the art-elitist side that Bellport harbors, yet it is presented in a way that would grab everyman off the street and accustom him to new culture in a way that is hardly overbearing. Quinn was kind enough to give his recommendations and knowledge of Bellport, and I found him to be genuinely interested in us and our true survey of culture in Bellport.
Leaving Quinn's store, we rounded down S. Country past the quaint Bellport Restaurant, and back around towards Porters on the Lane. The acoustic-guitar-playing entertainment on break, we decided to take a seat in the dining room of the nautical-themed eatery. Our server, Courtney, super-model tanned and beautifully blonde, informed us that the Winesday special and the hummus plate were only available at the bar, a strange way of running specials, I thought. After ordering a bottle of Relax Riesling, we decided to order the hummus anyway, a scrumptious crab cake with vegetables baked into it and an avocado sauce base, with an order of the graham cracker-breaded fried calamari, which was tremendous. The food was impressive, the staff was generous and helpful, and the owner John was affable in his inquiry into our dining experience at his delightful new restaurant (only opening in 2008).
John co-owns Carla Marla's ice cream shoppe across the street with his wife, Jenni. The size of a shack, with curbside "dog parking" in front, Carla Marla's is quite possibly the last mom and pop ice cream shoppe standing on a Long Island taken over by Carvels, Ralph's, and Rita's. My two-scoop cone of Butterfinger Blast and my companion Kerri's cup of Piece of Cake were delicious saccharine treats, satiating our walk down Bellport Lane towards the bay. At the end of the road lined with old Victorians and fish captains' houses, past the cannon commemorating all veterans, is the Bellport Bay Yacht Club. The bay water is cloudy, but not a deterrent to families coming in off of their boats, washing them off with a hose once ashore. Joining us on the dock were a man with a red polo and his two dogs, families in polo shirts enjoying the nighttime at the yacht club, grandma and grandpa crabbing with their handful of grandchildren, a man talking to a woman on a bike about his 55 Ford, and the bugs gnawing on us as the docks creaked and day turned into night. As we were leaving, the yacht club warden was interrogating a woman who had just pulled up in her station wagon with a sticker from 2005. She was being aggressively told that she needed a new one. We walked past them towards the ferry station, which takes a Bellport guest for $15 to the exclusive Bellport Beach on Fire Island, which is not accessible by car.
As we walked past Porters heading towards the car, Courtney on the front porch saw us and asked us what we thought of the bay. Admiring her congeniality and friendliness, we answered that the bay was beautiful, with which she agreed, and she wished us well as we departed, completely taken aback by the friendliness this small Long Island village had to offer us tonight.
Further on down South Country Road in Brookhaven is Painters Restaurant and Bar. The entire high-ceiling venue is filled with paintings on the walls, murals depicting headless men and women, unknown portraits of men, landscapes and abstracts. The frog-in-throat bartender informed us, as if my sweat glands hadn't already picked up on the fact, that the air conditioning was broken, as were their taps (which was a disappointing blow, since they had the elusive Delirium Tremens on its pink elephant tap). Dripping sweat, we sat at the bar through one bottled drink, observing the paintings and the company of an old man reading a magazine drinking red wine, and two men eating each other's pasta, being recognized by the woman at the other end of the bar. Painters is an interesting bar, and I would have liked to stay for open mic night, but I could not take the heat, so back to the road we went.
Hopping on Montauk Highway for a minute, then a stint on Horseblock Road in Brookhaven, and quickly off to Rocky Point-Yaphank Road, we passed Lower Lake and turned onto Main Street in Yaphank, where we found the Black Rock Tavern. A quick digression about the Main Street of Yaphank: picture a T-intersection with a refurbished 1950s-era Shell station on the left-hand corner. Maybe a storefront on your right. That's it. Small post office and one Washington Mutual later, and you are out of downtown Yaphank, a town sequestered in the geographical center of Long Island, which was first settled in 1726, and which is now very proud of its historical heritage. The Black Rock Tavern plays into the heritage of this country more than the tiny town that inhabits it, with license plates on the walls from all different states (Montana and South Dakota right in front of us and spurring conversation amidst our dollar beers), baseballs bordering the walls, with artifacts like a mitt and boxing punching bag everywhere you look. The downfall with this old western-style tavern was the beat-bumping dance music that was flowing nonstop from the jukebox and which drove most of the customers from the place. Definitely a different style Long Island bar worth checking out, however. I have hiked the trails around Yaphank before, some part of the Paumanok Path, and the lakes and rivers that surround the town are beautiful, so knowing about the Black Rock Tavern will be helpful for a respite or day trip out to eastern Brookhaven Town, where the amount of small villages and friendly inhabitants is more numerous than previously thought.
Four corners of the village of Bellport, each containing one restaurant and a few shoppes, this town is easy to miss but also easy to like and appreciate for its distinct welcoming community. Founded by Captains Thomas and John Bell in the 1800s, this would-be seaport is now a quiet, cozy community for full-time residents and affluent Manhattanites, seeking to escape the bustling city for laid-back Long Island living.
It's possible to walk the village of Bellport in about 10 minutes, peering into the windows of the village's Natural Pharmacy, on which there is a sign written "No cell phones please - Unless Really Really Really Important" with s smiley face, and reading the menus of the four major restaurants: Avino's Italian Table, Meritage, The Bellport Restuarant, and Porter's on the Lane. We had settled on Porter's, for its "Winesday" specials (more to come on that later), but wanted to breathe in what Bellport had to offer first.
On the northeast corner of Station Road and South Country, there is a store with tons of beach balls in the window. No store name, no awning, just a sign on the door that says "OPEN." Upon entering, we were greeted by random paintings, T-shirts, surfboards, marine paraphernalia, and a man in a tight-fitted beige dress shirt and beard. Quinn, a 20-year old college student at Pratt Institute in Brooklyn, is the "old soul" type, the new-age liberal art student who wants to celebrate the diverse culture of Bellport and Long Island by opening a community showcase, the Halftone Corner Store Cooperative. Everything in the store, which is run by Quinn and two of his friends, all Bellport residents, is made for or designed by local artists/residents. They screen documentaries nightly and have jazz bands perform on the weekends. This showcase represents the art-elitist side that Bellport harbors, yet it is presented in a way that would grab everyman off the street and accustom him to new culture in a way that is hardly overbearing. Quinn was kind enough to give his recommendations and knowledge of Bellport, and I found him to be genuinely interested in us and our true survey of culture in Bellport.
Leaving Quinn's store, we rounded down S. Country past the quaint Bellport Restaurant, and back around towards Porters on the Lane. The acoustic-guitar-playing entertainment on break, we decided to take a seat in the dining room of the nautical-themed eatery. Our server, Courtney, super-model tanned and beautifully blonde, informed us that the Winesday special and the hummus plate were only available at the bar, a strange way of running specials, I thought. After ordering a bottle of Relax Riesling, we decided to order the hummus anyway, a scrumptious crab cake with vegetables baked into it and an avocado sauce base, with an order of the graham cracker-breaded fried calamari, which was tremendous. The food was impressive, the staff was generous and helpful, and the owner John was affable in his inquiry into our dining experience at his delightful new restaurant (only opening in 2008).
John co-owns Carla Marla's ice cream shoppe across the street with his wife, Jenni. The size of a shack, with curbside "dog parking" in front, Carla Marla's is quite possibly the last mom and pop ice cream shoppe standing on a Long Island taken over by Carvels, Ralph's, and Rita's. My two-scoop cone of Butterfinger Blast and my companion Kerri's cup of Piece of Cake were delicious saccharine treats, satiating our walk down Bellport Lane towards the bay. At the end of the road lined with old Victorians and fish captains' houses, past the cannon commemorating all veterans, is the Bellport Bay Yacht Club. The bay water is cloudy, but not a deterrent to families coming in off of their boats, washing them off with a hose once ashore. Joining us on the dock were a man with a red polo and his two dogs, families in polo shirts enjoying the nighttime at the yacht club, grandma and grandpa crabbing with their handful of grandchildren, a man talking to a woman on a bike about his 55 Ford, and the bugs gnawing on us as the docks creaked and day turned into night. As we were leaving, the yacht club warden was interrogating a woman who had just pulled up in her station wagon with a sticker from 2005. She was being aggressively told that she needed a new one. We walked past them towards the ferry station, which takes a Bellport guest for $15 to the exclusive Bellport Beach on Fire Island, which is not accessible by car.
As we walked past Porters heading towards the car, Courtney on the front porch saw us and asked us what we thought of the bay. Admiring her congeniality and friendliness, we answered that the bay was beautiful, with which she agreed, and she wished us well as we departed, completely taken aback by the friendliness this small Long Island village had to offer us tonight.
Further on down South Country Road in Brookhaven is Painters Restaurant and Bar. The entire high-ceiling venue is filled with paintings on the walls, murals depicting headless men and women, unknown portraits of men, landscapes and abstracts. The frog-in-throat bartender informed us, as if my sweat glands hadn't already picked up on the fact, that the air conditioning was broken, as were their taps (which was a disappointing blow, since they had the elusive Delirium Tremens on its pink elephant tap). Dripping sweat, we sat at the bar through one bottled drink, observing the paintings and the company of an old man reading a magazine drinking red wine, and two men eating each other's pasta, being recognized by the woman at the other end of the bar. Painters is an interesting bar, and I would have liked to stay for open mic night, but I could not take the heat, so back to the road we went.
Hopping on Montauk Highway for a minute, then a stint on Horseblock Road in Brookhaven, and quickly off to Rocky Point-Yaphank Road, we passed Lower Lake and turned onto Main Street in Yaphank, where we found the Black Rock Tavern. A quick digression about the Main Street of Yaphank: picture a T-intersection with a refurbished 1950s-era Shell station on the left-hand corner. Maybe a storefront on your right. That's it. Small post office and one Washington Mutual later, and you are out of downtown Yaphank, a town sequestered in the geographical center of Long Island, which was first settled in 1726, and which is now very proud of its historical heritage. The Black Rock Tavern plays into the heritage of this country more than the tiny town that inhabits it, with license plates on the walls from all different states (Montana and South Dakota right in front of us and spurring conversation amidst our dollar beers), baseballs bordering the walls, with artifacts like a mitt and boxing punching bag everywhere you look. The downfall with this old western-style tavern was the beat-bumping dance music that was flowing nonstop from the jukebox and which drove most of the customers from the place. Definitely a different style Long Island bar worth checking out, however. I have hiked the trails around Yaphank before, some part of the Paumanok Path, and the lakes and rivers that surround the town are beautiful, so knowing about the Black Rock Tavern will be helpful for a respite or day trip out to eastern Brookhaven Town, where the amount of small villages and friendly inhabitants is more numerous than previously thought.
Monday, August 3, 2009
Somewhere Only We Know: Searching For the Sun in Stony Brook
Driving west along 25A in Stony Brook, or maybe it was Village of the Head of the Harbor at this point, a glance to my right and I am struck by this beautiful, voluminous orange orb receding into my horizon. I try not to veer off the road, but try even harder to follow the sinking sun. If I could drive through all of the towering trees and mansions instead of meandering down the 25 miles-per-hour no-parking-allowed Head of the Harbor road, I'd have spotted my sun in no time. However, I cannot find a place that would truly put me on par with the horizon to view my spontaneously desired sunset.
After fuel from Cool Beanz in St. James and a couple of inspirational words from William Least Heat-Moon, I could not let my desire for the horizon simply fade with the setting sun. I set back out on 25A heading east this time into Stony Brook Village and drive to the marina at the harbor in hopes of viewing the orb disappear into the horizon. My sun, however, is gone, but its remnants remain in the hues of orange, purple, and grey that streak the darkening blue sky. Other than the bugs--gnats, a suitable monosyllabic moniker for an insect not worthy of anything more--and the birds cacophonously croaking their hymns across the channel at their sanctuary, I am joined by some other sunset seekers:
-An Asian woman and her daughter, both wearing different shades of purple, taking a dip in the harbor water cordoned off for those wanting a late night swim.
-A bald man in jeans and red polo shirt sitting contemplatively on the sand apparently not minding getting his socks dirty to get a view of the natural sunset with me, the Asian woman, her daughter, and the birds in the distance.
-A couple perched atop the lifeguard stand, who presumably belong to the car in the parking lot with the Ward Melville High School 2009 sticker. I wonder if they are going to college, where, and if they will try to stick it out for their freshman year.
Trying to avoid the bugs (unsuccessfully, of course), I move closer to the water where I observe in the distance a small vessel, a dinghy or small power boat, coming into the harbor with the last minutes of daylight fresh on its tail. The boat is called Master Craft and clearly they do not need the light of the setting sun to master what they do.
Do any of us need light to be masters of our crafts, I wonder? I never sit fully in the dark; I do not think it possible to be productive in the dark. Light, therefore, is of utmost importance, and I set out to find what happens in Stony Brook when the light of daytime slips away into the night.
Instead of taking notes in my phone while I am walking the half mile or so into town, I decide to stop and write in the first few pages of the book I am currently reading by the aforementioned William Least Heat-Moon, Blue Highways. Still at the marina, I pass:
-An Asian man reading, possibly studying, while looking out onto the harbor.
-A balding man by himself fishing.
-A man in a red shirt with his daughter and son, also fishing.
I pass the Stony Brook Yacht Club, and the old-fashioned lampposts leading up to it, which are lit up and have an eagle on top of them. Gnats pestering me still, I pass by the Three Village Inn and its country cottages, towards the moon, which looks almost full. I guess I missed out on the full moon last night, I wonder as I head into the Village Center of Stony Brook, which could be the Village Center of Jackson Hole, Wyoming or Bozeman, Montana for its remoteness and sparsity. It is not yet 8:30 and everything seems closed. An American flag stands next to a garbage can that reads "I like to see a man proud of the place in which he lives" - Abraham Lincoln. This garbage can quotation and American flag juxtaposition resonates with me.
I wonder where a person goes for a drink in the village of Stony Brook at 8:30 on Monday night. There is a barren answer of "nowhere", as I wonder to myself, looking at the flags in the dark store windows. The restaurant Pentimento is closed on Monday, evidenced by the lone person inside painting the walls, surrounded other than his hallspace in complete darkness.
Wandering this village is strange with nothing and no one around. I notice in one of the store windows that Conor, a 3rd grader at a nearby elementary school, drew a picture representing the Stony Brook Fire Department's 100th anniversary. I pass by the fire department, erected of course in 1909, which is dormant as well. Coming to the end of the Village Center, I decide to head back to my car.
On the way back, past the chairs set up for a wedding at the Three Village Inn, I see the sandy-socked, red-shirted bald man walking with the purplish Asian woman and her purplish child holding a beach ball. He was as quiet as I on the beach, having no interaction with them while we were both sitting on the beach, observing the horizon. I would have never guessed them to be together. What was he thinking about? Was he wondering why I was pounding at my small keyboard, looking at him, his wife, and daughter?
As I get back to my car, I see Master Craft still waiting to dock and the man and his kids arguing about what they didn't catch that night at the Stony Brook harbor marina. I need to talk to someone here to find out what it's really like.
In search of a bar, I make my way back to 25A and to Stony Brook's The Bench Bar & Grill (nee The Park Bench), where I drink my Blue Point RastafaRye alongside a dozen guys watching the Mets-Braves game and a girl playing Kings of Leon on the jukebox.
I like the feel of this place, The Bench. It's dark and reminds me of an old-school joint, lots of signs and knick-knacks on the walls to stare at and read when you're tired of observing the guys watching the Mets lose. I am inclined to taste the bartender-recommended beer, Long Ireland, which is a delicious dark beer with sweet vanilla flavor hiding behind caramel-coated hops. I find out that it's brewed by the guys sitting next to me, Greg and Dan, who travel from Bridgeport, Connecticut, on the ferry everyday to promote their craft brewing company gem. I talk to Greg and Dan about the light effect on beer, how in a few years craft beers will be seen in cans because light coming in through the bottles slowly makes the beer lose its flavor, in a sense, "skunking" the beer. I learn here in The Bench that light is not always such a positive thing; however, I suppose my following the light of the sun tonight led me to this realization.
On my way home from Stony Brook, driving south on Nicolls Road, it's a beautiful night for the windows down, progressive rock radio of WEHM turned on, blasting "Laid" by James and "Great Gig in the Sky" by Pink Floyd, and I think that nighttime and darkness are alright sometimes. As I pull into my driveway, the song "Somewhere Only We Know" by Keane comes onto the station, and, listening to the lyrics, I determine my goal for the next month: I will find out the ins and outs of the place I live, Suffolk County, Long Island, someplace only I know.
I walked across an empty land
I knew the pathway like the back of my hand
I felt the earth beneath my feet
Sat by the river and it made me complete
Oh simple thing where have you gone
I'm getting old and I need something to rely on
So tell me when you're gonna let me in
I'm getting tired and I need somewhere to begin
After fuel from Cool Beanz in St. James and a couple of inspirational words from William Least Heat-Moon, I could not let my desire for the horizon simply fade with the setting sun. I set back out on 25A heading east this time into Stony Brook Village and drive to the marina at the harbor in hopes of viewing the orb disappear into the horizon. My sun, however, is gone, but its remnants remain in the hues of orange, purple, and grey that streak the darkening blue sky. Other than the bugs--gnats, a suitable monosyllabic moniker for an insect not worthy of anything more--and the birds cacophonously croaking their hymns across the channel at their sanctuary, I am joined by some other sunset seekers:
-An Asian woman and her daughter, both wearing different shades of purple, taking a dip in the harbor water cordoned off for those wanting a late night swim.
-A bald man in jeans and red polo shirt sitting contemplatively on the sand apparently not minding getting his socks dirty to get a view of the natural sunset with me, the Asian woman, her daughter, and the birds in the distance.
-A couple perched atop the lifeguard stand, who presumably belong to the car in the parking lot with the Ward Melville High School 2009 sticker. I wonder if they are going to college, where, and if they will try to stick it out for their freshman year.
Trying to avoid the bugs (unsuccessfully, of course), I move closer to the water where I observe in the distance a small vessel, a dinghy or small power boat, coming into the harbor with the last minutes of daylight fresh on its tail. The boat is called Master Craft and clearly they do not need the light of the setting sun to master what they do.
Do any of us need light to be masters of our crafts, I wonder? I never sit fully in the dark; I do not think it possible to be productive in the dark. Light, therefore, is of utmost importance, and I set out to find what happens in Stony Brook when the light of daytime slips away into the night.
Instead of taking notes in my phone while I am walking the half mile or so into town, I decide to stop and write in the first few pages of the book I am currently reading by the aforementioned William Least Heat-Moon, Blue Highways. Still at the marina, I pass:
-An Asian man reading, possibly studying, while looking out onto the harbor.
-A balding man by himself fishing.
-A man in a red shirt with his daughter and son, also fishing.
I pass the Stony Brook Yacht Club, and the old-fashioned lampposts leading up to it, which are lit up and have an eagle on top of them. Gnats pestering me still, I pass by the Three Village Inn and its country cottages, towards the moon, which looks almost full. I guess I missed out on the full moon last night, I wonder as I head into the Village Center of Stony Brook, which could be the Village Center of Jackson Hole, Wyoming or Bozeman, Montana for its remoteness and sparsity. It is not yet 8:30 and everything seems closed. An American flag stands next to a garbage can that reads "I like to see a man proud of the place in which he lives" - Abraham Lincoln. This garbage can quotation and American flag juxtaposition resonates with me.
I wonder where a person goes for a drink in the village of Stony Brook at 8:30 on Monday night. There is a barren answer of "nowhere", as I wonder to myself, looking at the flags in the dark store windows. The restaurant Pentimento is closed on Monday, evidenced by the lone person inside painting the walls, surrounded other than his hallspace in complete darkness.
Wandering this village is strange with nothing and no one around. I notice in one of the store windows that Conor, a 3rd grader at a nearby elementary school, drew a picture representing the Stony Brook Fire Department's 100th anniversary. I pass by the fire department, erected of course in 1909, which is dormant as well. Coming to the end of the Village Center, I decide to head back to my car.
On the way back, past the chairs set up for a wedding at the Three Village Inn, I see the sandy-socked, red-shirted bald man walking with the purplish Asian woman and her purplish child holding a beach ball. He was as quiet as I on the beach, having no interaction with them while we were both sitting on the beach, observing the horizon. I would have never guessed them to be together. What was he thinking about? Was he wondering why I was pounding at my small keyboard, looking at him, his wife, and daughter?
As I get back to my car, I see Master Craft still waiting to dock and the man and his kids arguing about what they didn't catch that night at the Stony Brook harbor marina. I need to talk to someone here to find out what it's really like.
In search of a bar, I make my way back to 25A and to Stony Brook's The Bench Bar & Grill (nee The Park Bench), where I drink my Blue Point RastafaRye alongside a dozen guys watching the Mets-Braves game and a girl playing Kings of Leon on the jukebox.
I like the feel of this place, The Bench. It's dark and reminds me of an old-school joint, lots of signs and knick-knacks on the walls to stare at and read when you're tired of observing the guys watching the Mets lose. I am inclined to taste the bartender-recommended beer, Long Ireland, which is a delicious dark beer with sweet vanilla flavor hiding behind caramel-coated hops. I find out that it's brewed by the guys sitting next to me, Greg and Dan, who travel from Bridgeport, Connecticut, on the ferry everyday to promote their craft brewing company gem. I talk to Greg and Dan about the light effect on beer, how in a few years craft beers will be seen in cans because light coming in through the bottles slowly makes the beer lose its flavor, in a sense, "skunking" the beer. I learn here in The Bench that light is not always such a positive thing; however, I suppose my following the light of the sun tonight led me to this realization.
On my way home from Stony Brook, driving south on Nicolls Road, it's a beautiful night for the windows down, progressive rock radio of WEHM turned on, blasting "Laid" by James and "Great Gig in the Sky" by Pink Floyd, and I think that nighttime and darkness are alright sometimes. As I pull into my driveway, the song "Somewhere Only We Know" by Keane comes onto the station, and, listening to the lyrics, I determine my goal for the next month: I will find out the ins and outs of the place I live, Suffolk County, Long Island, someplace only I know.
I walked across an empty land
I knew the pathway like the back of my hand
I felt the earth beneath my feet
Sat by the river and it made me complete
Oh simple thing where have you gone
I'm getting old and I need something to rely on
So tell me when you're gonna let me in
I'm getting tired and I need somewhere to begin
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