I Grew Up on a Monastery, and Sometimes I Go Back: A Photo Essay

Where I go to decompress

"In solitude, where we are least alone." — Lord Byron

No one wants to be lonely, but solitude is always OK by me.

Luckily for me (and now for you!), I have a Gold Coast estate in my back pocket that I exploit as a personal retreat when I need to still life's commotion. St. Josaphat's Monastery (formerly Ormston House)* is where I grew up, in the East Gatehouse on the estate grounds. You can click here for some background on this "secret world in Lattingtown," but in brief, it used to be the home of banking magnate John E. Aldred before it became a Ukrainian Orthodox monastery in 1944.

I took a drive out there today and wandered the grounds, which I try to do at least once a year. I hope you enjoy my photo essay and a little bit of local history. Sometimes too many words are noisy.

I also hope you'll be inspired to seek out your own solitude — at a park or beach or some Gatsby-era billionaire's estate of your own choosing — to mute the pandemonium. Your brain will thank you, and then you can thank me.

Monastery Meanderings

Did you really think I wouldn't use any words? Before I hit the monastery, I took a quick detour to revisit the nearby Meudon estate, which prominent New York lawyer William Guthrie once called home. The remains shown above are pretty much all that's left of the residence. Guthrie and John Aldred were friends who schemed together to buy up all of Lattingtown and then carve it up to suit their domestic desires. 

View of the Long Island Sound on the Meudon property, complete with forlorn-looking Tuscan columns.

This is the house my brothers and I broke into and used as a fort (yes, a FORT) after construction workers abandoned it because of the owner's financial issues. When the workers eventually came back one day at the end of the summer, we fled down the laundry chute and escaped out the back. Thank God rich people have laundry chutes.

Every estate worth its salt in Lattingtown has a name, not a number. I imagine there must have been some guy who went around the village handing out manor titles much the same way John Belushi bestowed nicknames on the Delta pledges in Animal House (though I didn't spot a single "Flounder" or "Pinto" during my trip). All in the same weirdo neighborhood, you get an antebellum-style estate (shown above) ...

... next to a residence that looks like a ski lodge ...

... next to the hotel from The Shining ...

... next to THIS (I can't even).

You'll also spy quirky mailboxes ...

... and disconcerting snoozing statuary wearing cute little hats and guarding driveways.

Now let's enter the monastery proper. My dad opened the front gates every Sunday for churchgoers. Mass is still held promptly at 9:30 a.m., though it's an all-Ukrainian service. If excessive incense and everything said in threes in an East Slavic tongue drives you crazy, don't attend.

Give it up for the East Gatehouse (aka my former crib).

I don't know St. Basil the Great personally, but he orders people around a lot.

There's lots of quaint signage scattered around the property.

This sign was especially sad, because it was just lying in the dirt, and the finger is pointing to a garbage can that's out of the frame. I kind of wanted to steal it, because it's cool-looking, but — monks.

This is the monastery library, built sometime in the 1980s, right before we fled the grounds and the monks of wrath for good.

If you'd like to take a load off, there are plenty of benched areas for reflection.

The road down to the beach is creepy and beautiful ...

... but the beach itself is just beautiful, especially in the winter.

We grew up hearing rumors that one of the monks had fallen off the rocky ledge at the water's edge and died. I have a sneaking suspicion that was just some BS to keep us away from the beach. Ha ha, didn't work, suckers! 

The abandoned tennis courts = depressing.

Riding up to the main house.

Hanging out in the driveway of the main house. They were looking out the windows at me, I know it. I could FEEL it. But no one came to the door when I knocked. 

"Ormston House" lives on. The Chock Full O' Nuts plant-holder is a nice touch.

The tea house hides behind a tree. 

A splash of color in an otherwise desolate-looking alcove.

Stone bench with ghoulish statuary. At least these guys have heads — many here don't.

Behind my car in the driveway: the entrance to the "Secret Garden," designed by the Olmsted Brothers.

Don't be cross to find lots of religious artifacts all over the place here. It's a monastery. Deal.

The monastery's namesake. I thought he'd be happier to see me.

The resident gazebo has seen better days. It always reminded me of R2-D2. I snuck a beer and cigarette into the gazebo today, because we moved before I could complete that rite of passage here and OMG WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME INDULGING MY VICES ON THIS HOLY LAND.

Houses are in the ground here, because that's just how they roll.

West Gatehouse. 

I heart you, St. Josaphat's. Or should I call you St. JosaPHAT's, because you totally are. Phat, that is. It looks like an owl, too, yes?

This rusted old gate may not look like much to you. But I would spend hours peeling the rust off, singing and thinking. I wish I could remember what I was thinking about. I'm pretty sure I was probably signing songs from "Annie."

The Wall extended down the length of Peacock Lane. We spent a lot of time on The Wall. My cousins were not allowed on The Wall, because their mom thought it was dangerous. Maybe it was, which would make me an exciting, dangerous person, and you should be pleased to know me.

Another detail in The Wall, which you can't really see here: In the sunlight, the rocks glisten and sparkle, and it's magical.

Cook's quarters. 

The Armstrong Dairy across the street. We had a metal milk container on our front porch, and once or twice a week, the Armstrongs would fill up that container with glass bottles of fresh cow juice. This was happening in the '80s, people.

Welp, done with my monk-ying around (get it?). I always feel a bittersweet pang when I visit here, and again when I leave. 

Because it's where I go when I'm thinking of my grandfather because I can't bear to visit where he's buried next to the road in some bleak cemetery in Queens. 

Because my kids will never have this.

Because a visit here always feels like dinner with an ex-boyfriend — there's a familiarity that's comforting, but you also know you'll never be intimate again (not that you necessarily want to be — it's just weird). 

Because you know that no one has ever or will ever experience this place like you do. Not your brothers, not the other kids who lived in the other gatehouses. It's like watching a sunset: Hang with a group of people on the same beach and watch the same sunset, and you'll all perceive it differently. You all have different memories of past sunsets that influence how you see this sunset. I read this somewhere recently, but I can't remember where, so please don't sue me if you're reading this. 

Anyway, goodbye till next year. Or whenever. 

I also made a pit stop at the Locust Valley Cemetery, where I discovered this totally awesome grave marker. This is a good place to end.

*More pictures of Ormston House on this site. His pictures are much better than mine. Next time I hope to get some interior shots.