June 15, 2014
J. Glenn Eugster
As we crossed the railroad tracks and drove along the two-lane road toward our new home I knew that more than our address had changed. Laurel, NY was a the hamlet my parents chose to buy their first home in. Located almost ten miles east of Riverhaed on Long Island’s North Fork the community we were about to call home was famous for the potato harvest and summer tourism. What struck me right away about this area was there weren’t many people around.
Laurel Lane was one of the road we took from 25 A East to Peconic Bay Blvd. and eventually our home on North Oakwood Road. More than any other road Laurel Lane made an impression on me. The road was long, straight and for the most part without homes. As we made a left turn on to the Lane, across from the Laurel Post Office, there were three homes and some outbuildings. A short distance beyond these buildings there was a railroad crossing and a potato warehouse. After you crossed the line there were no buildings only potato and strawberry fields and one wood lot.
The year we arrived in Laurel I was on my way to entering the 4th grade. I wasn’t worldly but we had lived on Waldo Street and South St. in East Hills just off Glen Cove Road. It was a suburban part of Nassau County with a constant stream of cars, taverns with shuffleboard tables, teenage girls standing under street lights and lots of houses with people. While in East Hills we regularly traveled short distances north to visit my mother’s family in Greenvale, and south to visit my father’s family in Westbury. Each trip made my head swivel as I took in the sights, sounds and smells of this part of New York.
My memories of Laurel and the North Fork are considerable and for the most part my parents decisions to go east brought good things into my life. The 50’s and 60’s were an exciting and challenging time to be growing up and Laurel shaped much of who I am. Since our parents died in 1979 I rarely get back to visit the area that I lived in from the time I was 7 until 19 years old. Many changes have occurred in Laurel and on the North Fork and it isn’t for me to judge whether the changes are for better or for worse. Laurel Lane seems to have retained a good deal of its character over the last 60 years and a real or imagined visit to this road gives me a chance to reminisce about how wonderful things were back then. More often than not we sort our subconscious and hang on to the good times while we archive the times that weren’t so good.
Laurel Lane helped define what this place meant to me. Although it wasn’t the most interesting route on the North Fork it became familiar and comforting to me. Time and time again when we traveled west to visit civilization it was the last right turn we made before we arrived at home. More than the scattered development along route 25 A it was the potato landscape that I would learn to know and love. The farms on both side were constant reminders of the seasons bringing the sweetness of spring and aroma of freshly turned soil. Whether I walked, rode a bike, or drove with the windows open the road always had a different feel to it.
As I explored Laurel and the surrounding communities I traveled on dirt roads, along the edges of and across farm fields, meandered along trails that were barely visible, and on the railroad tracks. Moving across the ground, often with the experienced naturalists Dave and Steve Nostrom, I was able to see, hear, taste and feel the place that I called home. It was more about experiencing the routes than getting from one place to another. The ultimate destination may have been the reason for my trip but the journey was oh, so much more important.
Over the 11 years I lived in Laurel I came in contact with many of the Laurel Lane experiences. The road and what it reminds me of remains vivid. At the 25A end of the Lane I recall the Post Office with Charlotte the Post Master, and her penny candies. I would eventually get to know Curtis Francis and Roscoe Strickland who lived in houses on or nearby the Lane. I would play soccer in high school for two years with Roscoe and never stopped being impressed with his talent, wisdom and sense of humor.
I recall the sound of the potato packing house when the summer-fall harvest was in. The sweet smell of the soil and the spuds, along with the sounds of the workers brought a burst of life to part of the Lane. Across the tracks from the potato fields I recall sitting with Eddie Bauman and Ricky Elliott and listening to them identify cars in the dark based on their lights and the sounds they made. Nearby Steve Nostrum and I would crawl in a serpentine manner along the rows of the strawberry fields eating the fresh berries until our hands and mouth were red and our stomachs swollen.
Occasionally we would make a left at the intersection between the lane and the railroad track and walk the rails until they came to another less traveled unpaved road which ultimately connected with North Oakwood Road. This route went by the “Haunted House” which always gave me a scary rush as we walked by.
Laurel Lane continued through the farm fields eventually passing a woodlot on the left. The lot was thick with understory and canopy vegetation which made it a place to relieve yourself if you needed to do so. It was also a place to be wary of since others used its protection and privacy for other purposes.
Across from the woodlot was a farm road that led to a gas pump for farm vehicles. The road also led to paths along the edge of the farms eventually leading to North Oakwood Road. If it wasn’t dark this was the most direct route home. On occasion there were large piles of potatoes behind some hedgerows with signs warning people not to eat them.
Laurel Lane gradually intersected with the Peconic Bay Blvd which connected Riverhead with Mattituck. The Lane continued a short distance until it dead-ended at the Great Peconic Bay. Several manicured seasonal homes were along this portion of the Lane, one of which had a large privet hedge to screen and protect the property. The end of the road at the edge of the Bay was 10-15 feet above the small beach below and offered a window of the Peconic and its shorefront.
The end of the Lane was also a place where Dave Janisko and I slaughtered dozens of horseshoe crabs in a fit of environmental ignorance; Steve and I would float on small icebergs; Pete Lutz and I would use one night as an escape route from angry neighbors; and I would talk with an old flame in her car, well into the night, until the police came looking for her.
A right turn onto Laurel Lane from Peconic Bay Blvd. was also a reminder of what it felt like to leave North Oakwood Road and Laurel. Driving north toward 25A often gave me a sense of freedom but the feeling was never as comfortable as the same drive going south. Perhaps arriving was shaped by the newness of the place, my youth and innocence, and the excitement of the wonderful rural landscape. No matter, the connections I made with the people, places and events of Laurel remain whether I am near or afar.
