The Wilds of North Haven

In the early 1950’s my parents bought a parcel of land, just shy of an acre, overlooking a creek and saltmarsh in North Haven. Beyond the saltmarsh the view stretched over the bay where you could watch the boats sailing in and out of the harbor and gaze toward Shelter Island’s Mashomack Preserve. Times were different then. The lot cost only $1,700.00 and though it was just a half mile from the bridge, the people of the village wondered why my parents wanted to move so far out of civilization and into the ‘woods’. They had lived the first part of their married lives, and the birth of their first four children, in a house shared by extended family members on Madison Street, just a short walk into town. North Haven at the time was mostly wooded with very few homes and thought to be the wilds of Sag Harbor.

My parents built a small ranch house on that lot largely with their own hands and it became home to my family – my parents and six of us, for most of my life. My father, a Bayman, had the vision to settle there, as the creek was alive with fish and crabs, eels and shorebirds. Every day I woke up to the sun rising in the east over the bay and a life filled with beauty and wonder.

My best friend and I would explore the endless woods on trails once traveled I believe by Native Americans and white-tailed deer. There was a wildness to our lives, camping out in the woods, ice skating on hidden ponds, building forts in the brush and bramble. There was a copper beech tree that still stands in our neighbor’s yard, dating back to the first settlers I imagine. So tall and vast are its branches and we would climb it to the top and look out over the village.

My father taught us all to crab and clam and fish. A most magical time was going ‘fire-lighting’ slipping out at night and paddling around the creek with a lantern clamped onto the edge of the old row boat. The light surprised the blue-claw crabs, who were quickly scooped up and brought into the boat. Eels darted about escaping the beam of light and the silver of minnows flashed, rippling the creek’s salty skin. I can still feel the quiet of those nights with just the occasional sound of an oar rubbing up against the boat and echoing across the silence. As the night wore on, my dad would always insist on ‘just one more’ loop around the creek, around the silence, around this mysterious moonlit world.

The acre of land yielded blossoming fruit trees and fruitful vegetable gardens – every inch cared for and revealing a bit wonder. It’s amazing how this small piece of earth was absorbed into my very being, becoming a part of who I am, who I will always be. 

When I was young my grandmother came to live with us for a time. Looking out over the saltmarsh, out over the waving sea grass and visiting shorebirds, out over this home of so much beauty and life and mystery, she gently whispered, ‘thank God for your eyes that can see all of this beauty.” In that moment, it was she that taught me that this is holy ground.