As the madness of late summer drew to a close and we were putting our September issue to bed, we were combing through photos for images of events from other Septembers when we were overcome with emotion at the sight of an idyllic personal photo from 2023.
In it, we’re holding our granddaughter’s hands as we walked away from the camera, down a dirt road just a block from our house. She’s two years old and the towering locusts and maples have just leafed out and you can almost smell the sweetness of the air.
But that image, like the images in many of our heads of the idyllic natural beauty of this place we call home, is firmly locked in the past.
We haven’t walked down that dirt path in more than a year, despite the fact that it was our granddaughter’s favorite place to explore. To her, this world is still brand new and full of beauty, but the places that are open to her are beginning to dwindle.
The new owners of that dirt road have made quite clear that the neighbors — especially those who have been walking these woods since we were children ourselves — aren’t welcome.
This scenario is playing out down every dirt road on the North Fork, as the mega-wealthy park their money here and build houses where no one lives. The gates and sky-high privet are not far behind.
Our common spaces are dwindling, though some places still put up a front of hiding the tragedy of our commons.
We were shocked last month to see a social media post from a restaurant down the block from us boasting that, thanks to its largesse, its non-profit landlord (to whom many of us donated thousands for a community center), would be able to have a fundraiser on its own property.
Should we be grateful to the folks who think they can come here by seaplane and eat two dozen oysters as they tell us they’re protecting our way of life? (Hey! We eat local seafood too, lots of it! We can even tell you what’s in season right here, right now.)
Don’t worry, we’ve heard the seaplane crowd say, we’re donating to your local land preservation organization, enabling them to preserve more farmland that no one can afford to grow vegetables on. The maths aren’t mathing, as the kids say.
You’ll be hearing soon about what our monsoon summer has done to our beloved wine grapes. Spoiler alert — it’s not good.
Farming was never a ‘lifestyle choice.’ It was always grit, dirt, bone-tired summers and penny pinching winters. A veneer of social media does not change that.
None of this should surprise us.
We swear we’re not surprised that the restaurant owned by a billionaire out at the Point (Orient) is charging a hefty price for a cup of tap water to accompany your lobster-infused meal. This happened in Montauk a decade ago. Up here on the North Fork, we should have seen it coming.
We shouldn’t be surprised either to see that some of our local hotels have recently become run-down housing for the staff of seasonal restaurants. We shouldn’t be surprised that many of our foodie neighbors are wondering whether they should pay the mortgage or go out to eat. We shouldn’t be surprised either to see prices disappearing from menus. If you have to ask, what makes you think you have the right to go out to dinner?
This place is not “tony.” This place is not “chic.” This place is not a “popular eatery” or a “jet-setting destination” or a backdrop for a blockbuster movie.
At least that’s what we thought, until this summer of tailgaters, monstrous traffic jams and endless money grabs.
This is not the home where we were raised. We are grieving, and we will still continue to grieve.
Happy September. Now go sell some pumpkins and apples, while you still can. We are still buying that. We’re even nostalgic for the gridlock of the Maritime Festival. That, at least, is something we grew here ourselves.
