In the mail was an “invite” to one of the summer’s premier events. Like many of these bedecked soirées, the highlight was where you’d be, whose house and what setting.
I read these things for the same reason I read real estate fliers: adjectives.
Here was a new one, in a brochure for a garden tour, a word that stung and worried me: “post-agricultural.”
One of the drawbacks to becoming a resort community is that you cede nature’s timely rhythms to man’s unnatural desires. To the village’s credit, they did consider hiring a renowned psychiatrist rather than an attorney to help them sort through the irrational pursuits put forth in Sagaponack. It was cheaper to go with the lawyer, and he could not write prescriptions, which helps with liability issues.
Never have Sagg’s roads been busier. I can tell you this by the rate at which guinea hens are killed. People know about the deer rut, but the guinea hen rut, because it is so localized, gets less attention. Also, a guinea hen doesn’t total your car—much as I wish it could.
They are nothing to slow down and stop texting for, because, unlike the deer, they pose no harm. Guinea hens rut after the last frost, with a brief lull during the shortest days. Guinea hens are just one part of the overall carnage that takes place every year right around this time—dead rodents and marsupials, turtles and rats. Slain is the mockingbird, with her mate screaming loud. Lifeless and flat, a puff of feathers or a patch of fur. Memorial Day weekend, indeed. It is the most misused holiday we’ve got.
There is no rational way to make our roads safer, though plenty of irrational ones … helicopter deliveries only, mopeds and more guinea hens. And the village motto could finally be changed from “Land of the large groundnuts” to “The Hamptons’ first island nation.”
Walk, don’t run, to the annual bake sale on Saturday, May 25.