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.

Beer Me, Mr. President!

I especially like this image because the custom T-shirt company that owns it has copyrighted text that makes no grammatical sense. 

*Updated February 20, 2017

It's President's Week — let's talk politics and beer! "But how can you link two such disparate subjects, Jenn?" Let me tell you: I'm going to have (at least) one high-ABV beer tonight (Dogfish's World Wide Stout, to be specific). Anything's possible, friends.

Let's start the aggregating. I'd be remiss if I didn't start by mentioning that our erstwhile commander-in-chief enjoys a good quaff now and again. President Obama imbibed his way down the 2012 campaign trail, handily defeating Mitt Romney with his brilliant social-drinking strategy (among other strategic devices — Jesus, I'm kidding, partisans!). He even debuted a recipe for his own honeylicious White House brew. (George Washington also had a scrumptious-sounding recipe for "small beer" that can be found in the New York Public Library's archives.)

Next we have BuzzFeed's pictorial of presidents drinking beer. Make sure you don't miss the shot about halfway down of the guy dumping a can of hops over Nixon's head. I also found this Reagan photo nestled snugly in Google Images between a pensive George Dubya pounding a pint and Obama drinking what appears to be a luscious Guinness milkshake — go Gipper!

Clay Risen's article covers ALL of the hooch (not just the beer) found behind past POTUS bars, but it's a fun, quick read. Where else will you come across these words, in this exact order: "Barack Obama doesn't just home-brew beer. He IS a home-brewed beer." Bill Clinton is a "Fresca spiked with old Grand-Dad," in case you're wondering. Mitt Romney is a Shirley Temple.

In October 2014, the New York Post ran a complete list of every president's drink of choice, which contained some interesting facts and more than a few recipes (the "McKinley's Delight" includes absinthe, if you're looking to hit it out of the park at your Presidents Day party).

My favorite post, though, is "The 11th Drunkest Presidents in US History." If you want to know which of our forefathers drank beer for breakfast, which president boasted an "Andre the Giant–like tolerance" to his spirits, and which libation-loving leader headed over to the local distillery every Sunday morning for a 10-gallon jug of whiskey, this is what you should be perusing while you're shoving those greasy eggs down your throat during that Monday-morning hair-of-the-dog thing you do.

Draft magazine tempers it a bit by simply listing the 12 presidents "that would be amazing Oval Office drinking buddies." 

Want to know why they called Rutherford B. Hayes' wife "Lemonade Lucy?" You'll have to read Rick Lyke's rankings of the best and worst presidents for beer. (Hint: She didn't earn her nickname in a Mike's Hard Lemonade kind of way.)

This is a more complete VinePair ranking of all 50 presidents in terms of their booziness, and surprisingly, teeetotaler Donald Trump doesn't come in last.

Don't forget those who feel compelled to drink when they're around presidents. Supreme Court Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg has admitted to throwing a few back not once, but twice right before Obama's State of the Union addresses. This is why we may need to get an RBG tattoo.

In a shoutout to beer snobs everywhere, the definitive proof that George Washington wouldn't be caught dead drinking a Coors Lite can be found here.

There have even been entire political parties formed around beer — including, much to my delight, the Ukrainian Beer Lovers Party, a short-lived totalitarian initiative dedicated to beer and ONLY the beer, comrades. And also to "the awakening and raise of the people's dignitiy through the cultural education." [SIC] 

So drink up. It's what William Howard Taft (the "Bluto of American presidents," according to Risen's analysis) would want you to do. Here are a few presidential/politically themed beers to get you through the long four-day workweek (longer if you have an unpatriotic employer). There were far fewer than I thought there would be, which makes me sad and longing to drink whatever nonpresidential beer I have left in my fridge. If you know of any others that might fit into this category, please let me know for future roundups. 

If you don't trust my admittedly unscientific vetting procedure (typing a slew of SEO-friendly terms into search engines) for these "recommendations," check out this infographic to see which pilsners and porters you should be pouring down your parched pharynx based on your politics. I'm drunk. Huzzah!

POTUS Potables

Fireside Chat is a spiced English ale usually only available during the holiday season. I've tried it, because I'm a sucker for kindly looking FDRs in pleasing red smoking jackets, but it's not that great. I think an intern stirred it with cousin Teddy's Big Stick. The only thing we have to fear is the beer itself!

I'm too young to personally remember Billy Beer, but this train wreck of a brand endorsed by President Jimmy Carter's hard-partying younger brother was epic. I suspect it wasn't very good, since this Mental Floss story reveals that Billy would get wasted at promotional events for the product and then admit to reporters that he still sucked down PBR at home. I wasn't going to include it in this list, because it's not available for purchase anymore that I know of (except for HERE), but the tale of its spectacular marketing fail will intoxicate you.

What are the 50 most patriotic beers in the US of A? Wouldn't you like to know. (Yes, you would, which is why you will now click on this link to find out.)

Lame, right? But this photo made me laugh, because it looks like the shell has its arm around the beer like they're pals, and Portlandia is on in 10 minutes. Aren't you glad I didn't write about telecommuting? Conch!

This Is How I Would Change Classic Board Games If You Gave Me the Power (You Won't Regret It, I Swear!)

Antiquated nuclear-family fun time FTW!

Board games have taken over my brain. My children insisted on playing lots of them this weekend while we were snowed in during the Great Nemo. Also, I happen to enjoy board games quite a bit. Also, Toy Fair 2013 starts today in New York City. It's fate! Or something like that.

Another reason they've been on my mind: There's been a recent blitz of board game modernization sullying the world of classic recreation. In December, "Scrabble researcher" Joshua Lewis proposed recalibrating the value of certain tiles in the popular word competition. He based this suggestion on a piece of software he wrote that analyzed the tiles' values based on current letter usage. (If you're in the mood for a good geek-gasm via a semi-in-depth debate on why this is a bad idea from an equity value standpoint, check out Slate's article on the subject.) Even though Hasbro and Mattel (the game's owners in North America and overseas, respectively) have stated they have absolutely no plans to implement this proposal, panicked players are in a tizzy (current word value: 26; word value under Lewis' proposed system: 18) over this threatened alphabetic reformation.

Next, Monopoly decided to dump one of its original gamepieces, that oppressive symbol of Donna Reed–style domesticity: the iron. In its place, the folks who voted for this upheaval annointed another symbol of domesticity (if your domesticity involves living a sad, miserable life):

And ... buh-bye.

I didn't mind this development quite as much, because I share absolutely no kinship with the wrinkle-averse community. I even organized a highly successful one-woman Twitter campaign — consisting of exactly three (devastatingly powerful) tweets that propelled me to Klout "Influencer" status on the topic of "irons" — to permanently shut down this mini permanent press. That's right, it was all me, though I would have preferred the robot or the guitar — or even a shrunken King Richard III head — to this feline Mephistopheles who will probably always land on Baltic no matter how you roll the dice.

But is it our place to reconstruct the BINGO zeitgeist? By collectively rejecting the iron, am I, and the rest of the game-playing world, symbolically spurning the full-time homemaker in favor of the cubicle feminist? Has it become a 21st-century mandate to bring more fucking cats into this world, no matter WHAT THE COST?

Maybe all of these things are true, maybe none of them. But at any rate, let's just be done with it and bring ALL of our favorite old-time amusements up to date in the name of political correctness and contemporary cultural standards. I'm a modern lady, and I demand my diversions follow suit. Besides, don't you know that change is good? You should know that. I'm a gentle reminder of such things.

Here are some of my ideas. I'm warning you: They're very, very good.

Candy Land


I personally love this game's current incarnation for its blatant "fuck you" to the food pyramid, but it will also likely be the downfall of the human race. You're a stupidhead if you still bake cupcakes for your kid's school birthday party (there are stringent anti-obesity policies that condemn such overtures) or if you don't turn in ALL of your Halloween candy to a local dentist who participates in the nationally endorsed "Milk Duds for Molars" buyback programs. 

It's time to reflect these nutritional edicts in our game play and replace the nefarious Molasses Swamp, Gumdrop Mountain, and Licorice Castle with Tofu Turret, Alfalfa Sprout Forest, and Edamame Ecosystem.  Or just rename the game "Eye Candy Land" and make every destination Kate Upton.

Connect 4

If you say you don't remember this commercial, you're either lying or ... you're lying. 

But more important that that: Four is a number for simpletons. I think even armchair numerologist Louis Farrakhan would agree. How are today's young brainiacs going to win their Westinghouses (or Intels, or whatever they're called these days) unless we give them something a little meatier to work with? Let's try "Connect the World's Largest Prime Number" and watch those SAT scores shoot up through the stratosphere like Ahmadinejad sending a monkey into space. Who's comin' with me?

Trouble

Ruh-roh.

In my revamped version, you still work your way around the board by indulging the addictively tactile sensation of pressing down on the plastic dome in the center, but every time you "roll" a predetermined number (say, a 5, as shown here), you get in trouble. Like, REAL trouble. Because nothing re-creates your childhood like the guilt and shame of unreasonable, randomly applied punishments. 

Maybe when that 5 pops into play, your significant other gets to yell at you for 15 minutes about something that's been on his/her mind but hasn't yet been broached during normal, healthy, constructive conversation. Or perhaps a much-loved privilege is taken away: "No drunk-tweeting for a week" will cleanse your soul and teach you a valuable life lesson. You'll find yourself looking forward to Game Night strictly for self-flagellation purposes.

Perfection

This kid doesn't follow the 80-20 rule. I hate this kid.

In my new-and-improved Perfection, the game board is shaped like a giant BlackBerry or iPhone or whatever personal mobile device people use to stay organized (I still use an old-fashioned Day Runner, so I can't speak to this). Players must try to cram as many tasks, to-dos, goals, emails, Facebook friends, Botox injections, bank deposits, job promotions, trophy spouses, and life goals as possible into the "unit" as they can in 60 seconds. When time's up, the whole thing explodes, because perfection is impossible. Can't you be satisfied with "good enough," people?

Sorry

Everyone's always apologizing for something. Especially women. All "sorry" does is remind me of Hayden Christiansen as the infuriatingly irritating Stephen Glass in Shattered Glass. New game play stays pretty much the same logistically, except no one does any fucking apologizing, for any reason.

Cootie/The Game of Life

I didn't know too many people who owned Cootie, but my family did. Perhaps you remember it by the gigantic demonic louse that graced its packaging. Here's a box you could find on shelves shortly after its 1949 debut:

Being a child of the '80s, however, my cooties were contained in this box:

But while no one liked to admit to owning Cootie (we only broke it out in front of friends when all other resources had been exhausted), EVERYONE copped to playing the Game of Life, aka LIFE. This monster made me think that if I was going to make it big when I grew up, I'd have to have four children, own (and subsequently sell) a cattle ranch, and command a lawyer's salary, please:

Now that I'm actually a grownup playing the REAL game of life, I've come up with a brilliant co-branding strategy: Combine the two and call it "The Game of Lice." Because what is life, really, if not a relentless parasite that sucks everything out of you and makes you constantly scratch your head in bewilderment. Amirite, brahs?!