Sagaponack Community Notes, August 29


Sagg has a rich history of lawlessness. One of our first prominent residents was running from the law. He, a citizen of Southampton, had been ordered to publicly whip his son. He refused and fled here to the hinterland of what is now Bridge Lane.Years later, Frank Serpico would seek refuge here. Sagg, because people couldn’t easily pronounce it, remained wild, remote, unmolested, as surrounding hamlets fell. Criminals and cultural icons and eccentrics always got along with the farmers, because the farmers had no idea who they were. Plus, there was always plenty of distance between them.

Sagg stands strongly with the vigilante, mainly the persons who have cut things down, or out. One such pedestal is held for the man who cut down a new line of electric poles, poles that promised the initial development of Daniel’s Lane. No one knew who did it, and likely he has already gone to his grave with this secret tight. The development, of course, went on, but the soul of this place had, with a swift chainsaw on a foggy night, spoken.

Or, if you don’t like the smell of two-stroke oil, there was the stencil cutter who placed their sign over a real estate sign, also on Daniel’s Lane. I can’t write here what was printed there, but a philosophical point had been made. Lawless, or perhaps self-policing, or maybe even not in need of policing, Sagg’s soul spoke again.

Now our elected board seems poised to hire some constables of its own. There is great debate about who will design the uniforms. Some want von Fürstenberg. Other members say Gucci always had “it,” meaning their vote, when it comes to formal-active wear. However, the general argument is more pressing: Do we really want to make a decision that threatens the core of Sagg’s identity? We might have to change the name of this seasonally uninhabited wasteland to “Cop-aponic.”

So, is this the death knell for Sagg’s surly nature? Perhaps. I always argued that speed bumps are the only guaranteed way to slow traffic down. German shepherds or Jack Russells, maybe a ready Smith and Wesson to keep the burglars away. The dilemma we are up against is not good cop/bad cop, but tempting houses/no one home from September to May. When a community turns from rural to resort, it runs into a lot of irony.

Sunday evening, the cars whipped past, but plenty stopped and asked for directions to Gibson Lane. There, we knew, was a party for political figures and their coterie. We, joyful that the ultimate outlaws love this place more than ever, gave them easy directions.

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