TWO MAINERS HIT THE HAMPTONS

The Hamptons are a string of seaside towns nestled along the southern fork of Long Island. Glittering social events in Southhampton Village, Sagaponack, East Hampton and Water Mill lure celebrities like Beyonce and Jay-Z, Jimmy Fallon, Anderson Cooper and Lady Gaga to swish parties in humongously large mega-million-dollar houses standing behind tall hedgerows, with white pebble driveways so long you cannot even see the Palladium windows.  (Believe me, I tried.)

This popular area and accessible getaway also attracts “normal” families from the New York metro area, including son Chris, his wife Jennifer and my grandboys, Miles and Henry, aka the Jersey Boys. They summer in Quogue (it’s known as “the quiet Hamptons) in a perfectly lovely house, by no means a mansion but I wouldn’t want to ante up their real estate taxes.

Two weeks ago Mr. Wonderful and I packed our LLBean brown zippered suitcases for a long weekend at their home in this quiet village of 1000 very thin people with serious cars and only three shops, including a food market where I needed to use my cash card to buy a pound of butter. (They do not give Land O Lakes away at the Quogue Market.)

I dug Mr. Wonderful’s navy blue Brooks Brothers blazer out of the mothball fleet, ironed a decade-old Lily Pulitzer blouse, and then we spent half an hour debating whether our Land’s End khaki shorts were suitable. “I’d like to bring my white Bermudas but you put them in the dryer and they shrunk,” Mr. W said.

The two and a half hour drive from the Wells woods to New London passes through the innards of Massachusetts and Connecticut. We then took a delightful ferry ride across Long Island Sound to Orient Point and from there drove 45 minutes along the North Fork past lush wineries, sweet villages and sparkling beaches.

The first event was a lobster bake that night on the kids’ spacious deck. Early that morning, at 6:45 AM to be exact, we had picked up 17 shedders from Three Sea’s Fish and Lobster and they were still madly waving tentacles and legs when Chris hauled the stuffed styrofoam box into their garage. 

Late that day as we were getting dressed, Chris hollered from the living room, “Bob, by any chance did you bring cufflinks with you?” (FYI, Mr. W hasn’t worn cufflinks since his Senior Prom.) He turned to me aghast. “Do we have the right clothes?”

We were fine! The lobsters were a smash! We old folks looked good! We didn’t even drool!

The next day we had breakfast and lunch at the Beach Club overlooking the roaring Atlantic surf. During lunch we sat at an umbrella table adjacent to where Pulitzer Prize-winning New York Times political journalist Nick Confessore was sipping an Arnold Palmer. I recognized him immediately!

(Personal aside: people spot Michael J. Fox riding his bike along Quogue Street and hear Jim Cramer announce “BOO-YAH” at the Quogue Market. Eli Manning frequently strides into the Quogue Field Club.  But as a lifelong scribe, I get positively starry-eyed by noted journalists, and Nick is a favorite. After lunch I was standing near him on the stairs that lead to the beach. “Hi Nick, I’m a big fan,” I said. He smiled broadly, we chatted a while, and he even told me he was coming to Maine in September “for a story.” I truly wasn’t hurt when he didn’t ask for my local knowledge input.)

Over the fun few days I watched 11-year-old Henry dive into the waves with friends named Crosby, Brec and Bashie. (Does anyone name their boys Tom, Dick and Harry these days?) I admired 13-year-old Miles’ crisp backhand during his tennis lesson but wondered how he kept his thick mane of red hair out of his eyes. “I’m not cutting it until school starts,” he said. 

On Saturday night Bob donned the navy blue blazer and I buttoned up the old Lily and off we went with the kids to “Cocktail on the Porch” at the Field Club. On Sunday afternoon, we all sunned on the beach (until Miles felt it was “too embarrassing” to be with adults), then played golf at the Field Club. No nap time for Vivi or Grandpa Bob.

Quogue is indeed special. The beaches are pristine, the waves are spectacular, the homes are gracious. There are few cars on the broad avenues in the village and no traffic jams at the one main intersection. It’s not a tourist destination like Kennebunkport so there’s less hustle-bustle. 

And the minute we were back in Maine, we put on our comfy sweats and tee-shirts. “Damn nice to be home,” Mr. W. said. Yes it was, and with happy memories.