Won't You Be My Neighbor?

My family summered in Hampton Bays back when the Ponquogue Bridge was a rickety drawbridge. Barefoot and sunburned, my four sisters and I tumbled out of “Tree Top,” our rented cottage, into the shallow waters of Tiana Bay.

The three other beach houses on the property were leased by the same families every year. Together, we formed a summer community.

As newlyweds, my husband and I got jobs mid-island, but we decided to buy in Hampton Bays. Sand between our toes was worth the commute. Plus, houses were affordable.

However, living full-time on the East End was quite different from being summer residents. The population shrunk; everyone we knew left after Labor Day. We could never be considered townies, because we weren’t born out here.

Eventually, though, I made lifelong friends who made all the difference.

My first neighborhood in Hampton Bays consisted mainly of ranch-style homes filled with families of state troopers. Most of the mothers didn’t work. Coffee klatches and bingo games with spiked punch were the highlights of the week.

Children played in the street and roamed in and out of their friends’ homes. There were no fences between properties. You could see or smell what your neighbors were grilling for dinner. It was similar in a way to my childhood neighborhood in Great Neck, where everybody knew your name, or at least to which family you belonged.

I had been living in my first house for six years and felt restless, craving something different. One afternoon, on the way home from the beach, instead of the usual left turn at the stop sign, I instinctively made a right. I headed down the block that dead-ends at the bay. It was as if a magnet was drawing me to the “for sale” sign nailed to a tree on a vacant lot.

Although the contemporary salt box we built was only two miles away from our first house, it felt like another world. I treasured the water view, the briny smell and, on rough days, the roar of the ocean. It was easy to enjoy the solitude, since we were already established in town.

Except for old man Foster, we were the only year-round residents for years. On Memorial Day weekend, house lights twinkled on, cars appeared in driveways, and the aroma of barbecue wafted through the air until Labor Day. Then lights were turned off, houses were shuttered, driveways were empty.

Over the years, our neighbors’ properties changed hands. A retired dentist and his wife built a house on the opposite side of the street and became full-time residents. Our next-door neighbors from Rockville Centre decided to spend more time in their summer house, testing the waters before they made it their permanent residence. Every year, we got to together for holiday drinks.

During the early days of the pandemic, when we were sterilizing everything and afraid to leave our houses, my art dealer neighbor decided she felt safer here than in the city. I met her one day when I was walking down to our beach. We chatted from a distance. She was used to living alone, but because of the veil of doom, she felt a little nervous about it.

I told her that I would call her every day.

Sometimes they were two-minute conversations. Sometimes much longer. We started to order groceries together from Peapod and Instacart. When she decided to sell her house and grow old in the city, we were both sad.

Since the pandemic, three families have moved onto our street. Because of COVID, they hadn’t met their neighbors, so my husband and I had a gathering in early January. My invitations were Kate Spade stationery with a golden bee on the front and the greeting: “What’s the Buzz?” The envelopes were lined in black-and-white stripe.

I addressed some by full names, one by just first names and the other only their last name that I knew from the sign on their lawn. I slipped them under their doors.

We had a roaring fire in the fireplace. Winter greenery replaced the Christmas displays, pomanders scented our great room, filled with crystal and glass catching the candlelight.

We served Ina Garten’s pomegranate martinis in antique glasses from Good Ground Antiques. I assembled two platters of charcuterie with plates and silverware for everyone. And, later in the night, the piece de resistance: pigs in the blanket.

There were 12 of us, ranging in age from 52 to 86. From the minute names were exchanged, there were no lulls in the conversations. Everyone was anxious to hear about the Gunite pool and renovations that the couple who bought the art dealer’s house were planning. They were unnecessarily apologetic about the noise.

The youngest twosome arrived with a bottle of Clicquot champagne. Together, they run over the Ponquogue Bridge. The wife, who is training for the Boston Marathon, has an impressive Rolodex from their remodeling.

The neighbors diagonally across from us bought their place fully furnished. There was an open house before it sold in record time. Most of us had seen the inside decorated impeccably in Hampton chic, and we raved about it.

For now, the new neighbors are second-home owners. Everyone asked us what it was like to live here year round.