The Hamptons: A Fall Homecoming

The old place looks much the same as the image

I’ve kept in my mind and heart since leaving

for military service several years ago. The giant

maples lining both sides of the road still form a

noble archway to the bay. Cloaked in bountiful

greens weeks earlier, their naked limbs now

cast shivering silhouettes against a gray Long

Island sky.

Like I had remembered, the fallen leaves have

become a patchwork quilt of oranges, yellows,

and browns, now blanketing the yard of the old

homestead. Beyond the pale green house, toward

the inlet, a sea of dry reeds sways to and fro in

the blustery wind gusting inland off the Atlantic.

Occasional surges of fresh, ocean breeze barely

mask the pungent odor of the Moriches bay –

a definite sign of a low tide. The summer renters

and droves of tourists have long since migrated to

their distant winter retreats, leaving behind a

conspicuous absence of noise. 

With the welcomed silence, returns the rhythm of

pounding surf in soothing whispers across the bay.

As daylight ebbs, I stop to fully absorb all of these

cherished sights, sounds, and smells, as they begin

to tranquilize my body, and lift up my weary soul.

Screeching gulls gracefully glide overhead, all

scavenging for that one last meal before dark, while 

thousands of sparrows and clattering blackbirds
chaotically swarm the barren trees, gathering

for their annual journey south. My own journey

is about to end, as I cross the deserted street,

and brush my way through piles of leaves,

past the pumpkins, and up to the front door.

Light from the television (that I would bet no

one is watching) frolics upon the sheer living room

curtains. Though I have walked through this portal

countless times in years past, the long awaited

anticipation of this moment triggers a surprise rush

of emotion, as I feel the worn doorknob in my hand.           

The sounds of fluttering fowl and rushing wind

cease with the closing of the door. Scents of

autumn leaves and salty sea air quickly yield to

those of aged wood and eucalyptus. The chill that

entered with me, suddenly vanishes into the

warmth of returning childhood memories. 

With my shoes off, I feel the old oil burning furnace

coarsely vibrating the hardwood floor. I surrender

my tired, aching feet to its soothing massage.

Ahead, at the end of the darkened hallway, a thin

frame of light seeps through around the edges

of the warped oak door. This light has a deep,

spiritual quality to it, and rightfully so: it radiates

from the very heart of this place – Mom's kitchen.

My heart beats faster as I near the entrance to

this most holy, sacred chamber. An intoxicating
aroma permeates the air, growing stronger with each

step - pot roast! My mouth begins to water. I can

already taste the savory, tender, beef smothered

in onions, carrots, and potatoes. Only seconds from

now, I will touch the aging hands that prepared it,

and be wrapped once again in an embrace I have

sorely missed for far too long. 

At this very moment, I feel as though a million

miles separate me from the rest of the mad world

and all of its senseless perils. In this place, I know

I am safe from all danger and harm. Tonight, I’ll

finally know peace; for tonight I sleep at home!


~GJ Duerrschmidt