Summer's End

Hamptons Letter Well, it's the end of the summer for us. Time to pack up and go home. I used to stay for the Hampton's Classic, the big horse show, but not anymore. Too many people. Too many horses. Too crazy. There are things that have to be done before we can leave. We went to the animal hospital for the dog's last visit. He was hit by a car on July 22. Finally, his bandage is off. The trumpet they hung around his neck so he wouldn't eat the bandage is off. Seven hundred and fifty dollars later. And he didn't break a bone.

I told the vet that I thought it was quite a lot, and he said, "That's why I became a vet."

I thought I didn't hear right. "What?" I said.

"I became a vet because vet bills are so high," he repeated. "I have a dog."

"Oh," I replied. There wasn't much else to say.

Anyway, the dog was going home in one piece, albeit really grouchy.

Then there was the dump.

Out here we go to the dump with garbage, which used to be fun because it was mounds of garbage, old furniture and whatever. There were seagulls, and a tiny house with a flower garden where the dumpmaster lived.

Now it's a state-of-the-art "containment facility," all concrete and spotless with different sealed dumpsters for different garbage items. It has a Los Alamos feeling to it. And it's closed Wednesday and Thursday, so I had to work quickly.

Mounds of paint cans from the basement going back to the early 80s, way before Martha Stewart, when there was only one shade of white, had to be bagged in the Sag Harbor dump's special bags, which cost 50 cents apiece.

There were all the summer UPS boxes and FedEx envelopes, and shopping bags and brown paper bags. I myself am betting on UPS and FedEx for rising stock this year. I got to know the UPS guy quite well; also Bill from FedEx.

I went to a final yard sale and found some great things?a handknit pink scarf and hat in which my daughter looks like a living bonbon. And a mug that bears the very cryptic phrase, "As for Grandpa's, you're number one." Does it mean in Grandpa's world you're number one, or is it a misspelling and means to say As far as Grandpas go?without an apostrophe?you're number one? We'll never know for sure, but it is grandfather kitsch, which I like to give my father from my daughter whenever I can find it.

I'll miss the yard sales. I've been wanting to have one for the last 10 years and just didn't get to it again, so the basement is filling up with summer stuff I've saved and bring out from the city every year for it. Next year I'm doing it come hell or high water.

We went one last time to the beach and it was gorgeous. The bay was as calm as glass. There were hardly any jellyfish this year, and those the kids netted were the white kind that don't sting, though one boy said they did.

I thought of how funny the weather was. The most beautiful July in 20 years, like the old days before most of the farms were sold and the potato fields built on. Cold enough at night for a sweater and golden sun during the day.

Then there were those three weeks of torrential rain during which my geraniums died and the merchants seemed to make money. But then prices went down a dollar in August, so maybe the rain scared people off.

We were all prepared for global warming this summer?temperatures in the 90s and nonstop sun. Even Hollywood was prepared. There was a dearth of kids' movies and three weeks of rain. Out in Los Angles someone's head probably rolled.

I cleaned the house and said goodbye to Simba, the beautiful golden retriever who visited us every morning. I said goodbye to my next-door neighbors on one side whom I will see in the city, as they've bought a house next door to us in our Manhattan neighborhood. There are no accidents.

It's not poignant to leave the Hamptons. I'm not really a small-town girl at heart. I love anonymity. And after two months, I find the country turns on you and I get nervous. And I can't stand the car one more minute. This year I saw four actual collisions and almost had one with a guy in an SUV who never bothered to look down at my lowly Ford.

The only mystery that remained as we sped out of town in a rented van was why the ice cream truck can't get a permit to sell ice cream at the kids' beach. Well, I'll find out next year.