Two years later, Gordon and Dot Hall moved in across the street. Nine years after that, Bernie and Barbara Dorogusker bought a house next door to the Starzyks.

Much has happened since then. Countless families moved in, had kids, raised them, moved away. Decks were built, 2nd floors added. Trees have grown tall (and fallen).

But nearly 50 years later, all 3 families still live on the horseshoe-shaped drive near Hillspoint and Green’s Farms Road, just south of the railroad tracks (and the “Connecticut Turnpike” — I-95 — which was still being debated when the former cow pasture was developed back in 1952-53).

There may be no other place in Westport where 3 neighbors have lived so close together since the Kennedy Administration.

A 1952 ad for "Compo Manor: A Residential Community Situated in Westport, Beauty Spot of Southern Connecticut" shows "The Perfect Three-Bedroom Rancher" model home. It is "Priced at $14,500. Complete."

The Starzyks are the only original owners left. Mike and Galy were living in Bridgeport. With 2 children, they needed more room. Galy’s brother-in-law — Art Reale — told them about a new development, “Compo Manor.” The lots were small — 1/4 acre — but the $14,500 price was perfect.

Better yet, nearly all their neighbors were like the Starzyks: young, and with kids.

In 1955, Gordon and Dot Hall’s daughter was not yet born. Married 2 years, and both teachers — he at Bedford Junior High School, she at the brand-new Coleytown Elementary — they had rented “tiny, ramshackle places” elsewhere in town.

But they saved their pennies — “literally,” Gordon notes — and loved the little ranch house that was for sale. Other tract homes they’d seen — on Reichert Circle, Bauer Place and Tamarack — all faced in the same direction. The 43 Drumlin homes were built with the same 2 or 3 floor plans, but they were angled uniquely. And each setback was different.

The asking price was $20,600. The Halls paid $19,600. On their salaries — he made about $3,000, she $2,900 — that was manageable. But for 4 summers, when they took graduate courses, they rented the house out. The extra cash helped make ends meet.

“There were lots of strollers, and there was lots of sledding,” Dot recalls. “Everyone was very sociable, because (the adults) were all around the same age.”

Gordon and Dot Hall's house in 1957 (left) and 2012 (right). The 3 families that have been neighbors for nearly 50 years share the mailboxes in the photo at right.

Barbara Dorogusker is the “newest” of the 3 neighbors — but she’s got the longest local connection. A 3rd-generation Westporter, she grew up on 6 acres on Sturges Highway. Her grandmother (a former indentured servant in Poland) lived next door. The property included a pond and barn.

After graduating from Staples in 1952, Barbara married a man from New York City. They wanted to buy a house, but without much land. Bernie was a sailor; proximity to the Sound was key.

With $2,000 in the bank, they searched for a while. Finally they saw a place on Drumlin. With a big field in back — off Jennie Lane — they could look at nature, but not have to take care of it.

“It wasn’t our dream house,” Barbara admits. “But every house is a compromise.”

Her parents were “appalled. They thought we  were moving into tomorrow’s slums because the lots were so small.” But, Barbara says, “it was perfect for us.” And Cedar Point Yacht Club was just down the hill, at Compo Beach.

They built a big sunroom, and a deck. They had 2 children. “We wanted them to grow up surrounded by friends,” Barbara says. “They sure did.”

The kids created secret pathways between bushes. An empty school bus would pull up to the foot of Drumlin Road. It drove away filled.

Every summer, the Drumlin Road neighbors have a block party. Last summer's event showed an enormous span of ages -- but plenty of smiles.

Over the years, the road changed. There were many “older couples, divorced people, one-child families,” Gordon says.

Miraculously for Westport, there have been only 2 demolitions — and both were caused by accidents. One house burned; the other had a tree fall on it.

Of course, many homes have been remodeled. They’re a bit larger than they were (Gordon calls them “mini-mansions, not McMansions”). So they’re once more attractive to young couples. “We’re seeing bicycles and strollers again,” says Dot.

But not every house has been sold, re-sold, and re-re-sold.

“Why would we ever want to move?” Barbara asks. “Everyone looks out for each other here. We’ve got one story, which is great.” (She’s 77; Bernie is 85.)

“And with housing prices going to pot, why leave?”

Similarly, after the Starzyks’ kids grew up and moved away, Mike and Galy stayed. “We were comfortable,” she recalls. “There was no reason to leave.”

Sixty years later, they’re still on Drumlin Road.

“I don’t know how much longer I’ll be in this world,” 93-year-old Galy says. “But I have no plans to move.”

Nor do her neighbors. After 49 years together, there’s no place like home.

And then, as soon as New Year’s is over, everything comes down, and we revert back to our old selves all over again?

Betsy Phillips is out to change all that.

Instead of Santa or a creche, she displayed a peace sign on her Compo Beach home.

It’s still up.

Betsy vows to keep it going all year.

That should warm some hearts on a cold winter night.

And provide a nice punctuation point on the 4th of July.

Now Elwood Betts adds even more details — including some history about the adjoining property, Sherwood Island State Park.

Or, as Elwood called it back in the day, Sherwood’s Island Farm.

Elwood Betts, at Evergreen Cemetery. His interest in genealogy led him to help renovate this cemetery, as well as undertake research into the history of Sherwood Island and the Mill Pond.

He should know. An 86-year-old Westport native — he was born in a house on Imperial Avenue — he is an amateur genealogist. Elwood literally knows where all the bones are buried.

And — with the help of Loly Jones — he’s written a few short histories about his ancestors, and the Westport that once was.

Growing up during the Depression, he heard stories of the great American sailing ships that dominated world commerce in the 1840s and ’50s, and the members of his family who captained them. A painting of the packet ship “The Adeline Elwood” — of which his great-grandfather Charles Elwood was captain — hangs proudly in Elwood’s Park Lane home.

He and Loly wanted to find out more. Research at the Westport Library led to the grand list of 1917. Fannie Elwood — a descendant of Capt. Elwood — was one of the top taxpayers in town, assessed $30,350 for “Sherwood’s Farm” on the island bearing the same name.

The original gristmill.

The island was not far from the site of a gristmill on what we now call the Sherwood Mill Pond. In 1705, the 1st mill had been built on what was then called Gallup Gap Creek. (Gallup Gap itself was located where the Sherwood Island connector is today.) In 1790 Daniel Sherwood bought the mill.

After his death in 1828, it was rebuilt. It thrived for years, specializing in kiln-dried corn meal shipped to the West Indies, on boats that docked right at the mill. Oysters were also grown and harvested in the Mill Pond, fetching up to $20 a barrel at the Fulton Fish Market.

The gristmill has been replaced by the house on the right. Back in the day, ships sailed right next to it to load cornmeal, oysters and other goods.

The growth of railroads cut into business, though, and after standing idle for a while, the mill was destroyed by fire in 1891.

Meanwhile, back in 1787, farmland on Fox Island had been given to Daniel Sherwood Jr. as a wedding present. It became known as Sherwood’s Island, and he and his wife Catherine Burr farmed onions and potatoes there.

The Sherwoods had 11 children. The youngest — identical triplets Franklin, Francis and Frederick — all had long and storied careers as sea captains. In 1865 Franklin retired, and became a gentleman farmer on Sherwood’s Island. Indentured servants — immigrants from Russia, Greece and Switzerland — worked the land and helped with household responsibilities.

When Franklin died in 1888, his daughter Fannie Sherwood Elwood inherited the entire 24-acre property. She was the wife of the son of Elwood Betts’ great-uncle, Captain John B. Elwood.

The productive land was surrounded on all sides by unusable marshlands. By the end of World War I, farming there wound down. In the 1920s, it became difficult to support the taxation on the large assessed valuation of the property.

Elwood remembers swimming there with his Sherwood cousins, and visiting the homestead on the island. It provided a great vista, all the way to Long Island. Traveling there — on a winding path — seemed “a journey into a distant world, set apart from the (Westport) community I was accustomed to.”

In 1932, Aunt Fannie sold her property to the State of Connecticut. The house fell into disrepair; the farmland became overgrown. By the late 1930s, it and other open farmland throughout Westport started growing quickly back into wooded areas. Elwood calls this a “dramatic change in the landscape.”

A 1930s map showing subdivision possibilities for Sherwood Island.

Gradually, the State of Connecticut bought more and more property — eventually 234 acres. The 1st parcel — adjacent to Burying Hill Beach — had been purchased in 1914. In the decades that followed, influential landowners in the Green’s Farms area fought the state. By 1937, however, key parcels were acquired — remarkable, considering the dire straits of the Depression. The 150-year-old homestead was demolished. Sherwood Island — the 1st state park in Connecticut — opened to the public.

Had the state not prevailed, a housing development — with hundreds of homes — may well have been built on the land. Westport would look far different today.

In fact, much of the nearby Sherwood Island Mill Pond looks not greatly different from the 1930s — or decades, even centuries, earlier.

Ships no longer dock there, and the “old mill” itself is gone. But the tidal pond is there. Sherwood Island — “Sherwood’s Island — is one marshland away.

And Elwood Betts remembers it all.

Sherwood Island Mill Pond today. (Photo/Wendy Crowther for WestportCT.gov)

(If you subscribe by email and have no idea what I’m talking about, here it is:)

Plenty of Westporters — myself included — have long admired the house in the middle of the Mill Pond, but never known the back story.

(I have been inside. Back in its uninhabited — and my younger — days, it was a favorite party destination. I really hope the statute of limitations is up.)

But only Wendy Crowther emailed me with some very intriguing info. This very alert reader wrote:

The photo shows the cottage that I’ve heard called “The Hummock House.” It is the small shack sitting on a hummock (a rounded knoll, or in this case a rocky sand and mudflat) in the middle of the Sherwood Mill Pond.

Old stories say that it was once a part of the gristmill that sat at the foot of the pond (where the tide gates are today). When the mill was destroyed by fire in 1891, an unburned portion (perhaps part of the barrel and cask-maker’s shed) was floated out to the hummock. Once there, it served as a guardhouse for the shellfish beds in the pond.

Despite the fact that there is no electricity or plumbing, it has been occupied over the years, on and off, by a resident who obviously lived very simply and preferred privacy. A few years ago the cottage was put on the market, along with 6 watery acres surrounding it, for $1.5 million. It came with an option to buy the clamming and oystering rights to an additional 30 acres. I don’t know whether it sold.

I cropped the header photo, by the way, from a larger (and very beautiful) photograph I found online. I believe the photographer is Jeff Giannone:

He’s a regular at the Old Mill deli/grocery store/community center.

So are plenty of other Westporters.

But — no matter how often we get our coffee, pizza, a salad or wrap at a regular place — how many of us think to send it a Christmas card?

Plenty, apparently.

This season, Elvira’s is exhibiting dozens of cards from grateful customers.

They even crowd out the school photos of local kids that Niki, Stacy, Nick, Harry and the crew proudly display on the front counter.

Elvira’s is that kind of place.

So — as they say back in Elvira’s homeland — Καλά Χριστούγεννα!

Last Sunday at Elvira’s, Sef Brody saw Joe Lieberman.

The 1990 Staples graduate did more than just say, “Good morning, Senator.”  Here’s his story, direct from his Tumblr, “Brody Post.”

He was wearing a baseball cap in front of the deli counter, standing with his wife and 2 friends, wondering out loud what kind of egg sandwich to order.  I had just rolled out of bed but there was no way I could miss that face.

Half-hidden under my green hoodie, I told the former vice president-elect that they make delicious spinach and feta at this place.  He wanted to make sure it was vegetarian.

He asked me my name and what I did. We talked about our shared Hebrew name and its origins.  He told me a related story about his wife.  I told him I grew up in the neighborhood and that I got my first job in this same deli when I was 15, they put me to work integrating the various sections of The New York Times in the back garage before dawn on weekends, that now I’m a clinical psychologist living in Paris.

He said that sounded pretty great, how’d I manage that?  Not wanting to get into it, I said, “It seems you’re not doing too bad yourself.”  He introduced me to his Westport friends.  For a man who I’ve come to see as a total disgrace, whose politics I detest, I found this guy very charming in person.  I imagine he must share this trait with most successful politicians.

Joe Lieberman, the senior senator from Connecticut.

Itching to talk politics, after we both ordered I started asking him questions.  I shared my concern with him that the next financial crisis will be worse than the last one, asking him how realistic our chances were to break up the mega-banks before it’s too late.  He said that funnily enough someone just asked him the same question— as if “too big to fail” was a new concept— and went on to blame Republicans for blocking reform.

I said, mistakenly, “You’re caucusing with them now, right?” He looked down and away sheepishly, replied that he’s still caucusing with the Democrats.  I responded, “But you can understand why I could make that mistake, right? Everybody’s like, ‘What happened to Lieberman?’”

Wondering about the best way to broach US-Israeli injustices towards Palestinians, a topic of deep personal concern to me and one in which he holds unique power, I asked the chairman of the US Senate Committee on Homeland Security and Governmental Affairs another crucial question:  “Don’t you wonder whether we’re endangering both US and Israeli security by lending full support to Israeli aggressions?”

He responded that “it’s not a blank check” we’re giving Israel.  He claimed that Israel has so few discussion partners in the region that they’ve become “paranoid”— he puffed his chest out and balled his fists to demonstrate what he meant.

When I bemoaned the lack of real public debate on such a serious issue in the US compared to the relatively vibrant debate happening in Israel, he corrected me that there’s actually plenty of debate happening in the US — “just not in public.”

Sef Brody, the clinical psychologist from Paris.

I very much wanted that conversation to continue but he eluded further clarification, and left to join his wife and friends at the picnic tables outside.  I stood there thinking that despite the mysteriousness of that last response, it was very revealing about how he views American democracy, about how he understands the way it’s supposed to work.

What would you say or do, given a surprise opportunity to face a contemptible politician mano-a-mano?  Throw your shoe?  Spit in his general direction?  Curse him out?

It might have felt good to let out some real anger, to at least remind Lieberman of his deep betrayal of Connecticut voters, or about how profoundly he has shamed himself and the United States.  I might have liked also to ask him which country he wants to invade next.  Or about how many civilian deaths he thinks he might be personally responsible for across the Middle East and Central Asia.

I instead asked myself, What approach is mostly likely to have a desirable effect? Looking into the sympathetic eyes of a man who has successfully mastered an enormous, complex and corrupt political system, I found myself taking the polite-but-critical tack.

Leaving the store, still groggy and hooded, I headed toward Compo Hill Road, coffee and egg sandwiches in hand.  He waved goodbye, and called out to me by name.  I swung around past his table, put my hand on his shoulder and reminded him of one short-term need that might possibly get through.  “Break up the mega-banks, Joe.”

He turned and called out, smiling:  “That’s the message of the day.”  

There’s plenty of action already at always-crowded Compo Beach, where homes are close together and the candy-to-walking ratio is great.

This neighborhood house — on Danbury Avenue — is all decked out for Halloween:

I was very impressed that the home houseboat owners had named their decorative creation after me.

Until I learned that “Dan” is that guy’s name too.

Boo (hoo)!

Steinman used his discoveries to treat himself for pancreatic cancer.  But he lost his 4-year battle on September 30 — 3 days before he was announced as the Nobel winner.

Posthumous Nobels are not allowed.  But the Foundation determined this one had been awarded in good faith.  The honor stood.

Ralph Steinman, Nobel winner -- and Westporter.

Yes, an intriguing — probably even made-for-TV movie — story.  But in the swirl of publicity around Dr. Steinman the Nobel awardee, little was said about Ralph Steinman the husband, father and longtime resident.

Last weekend his twin daughters, Lesley and Alexis, talked about their dad.

He’d worked at Rockefeller since 1971, but he and his wife Claudia wanted to raise their family outside New York City.  They moved first to Sleepy Hollow, but the schools weren’t good enough.  Firm believers in public education, they heard about Westport from friends, investigated, and were sold — in large part because of the schools.

“It was the best of both worlds,” Lesley says.  “He loved the beach, he could commute to New York, and we could get a great education.”

The Steinmans moved here in 1983:  2nd-graders Lesley and Alexis, and their 5th-grade brother Adam.

Ralph Steinman with his 3 young kids, at their North Avenue home.

“Dad worked all the time,” Alexis says.  “He’d take stacks of journals to the beach.  Around the house he gardened, chopped firewood and barbecued.  He relished being ‘in the country,’ but his life was work.”

A world renowned scientist does plenty of traveling.  “He was away an insane amount,” Lesley says.  “There were meetings all over the planet.  But he never got to see any of the places.”

He spent years trying to convince skeptics that his dendritic cell immunology work had merit.

His world, Alexis says, “wasn’t Westport.  It was the scientific community.  That’s why he chilled out whenever he got back here.”

Steinman relished taking his children to to his Rockefeller lab.  “There were pipettes, centrifuges, and mice that he would touch and make them pee.  It was very cool,” Lesley laughs.

Steinman said he had no hobbies — though he skied and played tennis — and “he told all the kids we were way too multi-faceted to go into science,” Alexis says.  She and her sister both live on the West Coast, and are involved in artistic endeavors.  Adam has a law degree from Yale.

“It’s interesting:  Dad taught us to be good scientists without explicitly couching it as ‘science,’” Lesley says.

“He taught us to be critical thinkers, to make decisions based on sound data, to collaborate and not compete, and to work hard.  He never pressured us to go into the natural sciences, but he always encouraged us to be good scientists.”

When Steinman was diagnosed with cancer in 2007, he convinced doctors to harvest his dendritic cells, so he could grow his own and do his own therapy.  “They don’t let many people take their own tumors out of the hospital and work on them,” Lesley notes.

“Luckily he had success.  That, and chemotherapy, helped him live as long as he did.”

The Steinman family, in a recent photo.

Also in 2007 Steinman won the Lasker Award — the “American Nobel.”  He knew that might lead to a Nobel — which he hoped to get, because it would generate more support for his research — but when he did not win it in 2008 or 2009, Lesley says, “he just went back to work.”

He died this year without learning he’d won the Nobel Prize — though, Lesley says, “we like to think he knows he got it.”

In the days following his death, they’ve heard from hundreds of Steinman’s colleagues and former students.  As often happens, his wife and children have learned a lot they never knew.

“He was a matchmaker in the lab!” Alexis says with surprise.  “We found out about all these marriages he helped arrange, and all the kids that resulted.”

“We got a lot of emails from renowned scientists who came through his lab,” Lesley says.  “They talked about how inspired they were by him.  They said they carry his excitement with them, and now they use his lessons with their own students.”

His children also discovered “how proud he was of us,” says Alexis.  “I work in costumes in L.A.  I never knew he was so impressed with Lesley and my creativity, and that he knew how hard we work.”

At the same time, Alexis adds, “We told his colleagues and students how much he thought of them, because he always told us.  But they didn’t know.  I think that was how he kept all of us from being spoiled.”

Claudia and Ralph Steinman

While Steinman was a “father” to so many scientists — and was often away from home — Claudia did most of the child-rearing (while pursuing a full-time career in real estate).

“They complemented each other so well,” Lesley says.  “They were very different, but very much in love.  They were always so affectionate with each other.

“And he always said he would not have been as successful without her love and support.”

That’s what 85-degree weather, brilliant sunshine and a holiday will do.

Only one things was different:  dogs.

An alert “06880″ reader emailed to say how delightful the scene was — except for so many Spots, Fidos and Rovers “peeing and pooping” (to use the technical terms).

Another equally alert reader wrote:

After a glorious weekend, I wonder if you can provide some background as to how October 1 became the “let everyone enjoy Compo — no permits necessary” date.

While I’m all for letting everyone enjoy our gorgeous beach, why doesn’t the town doesn’t follow Greenwich and have a November 1 date so that we locals can enjoy the beach with our Westport neighbors a little longer…  especially on magical weekends like we just had.

Dogs could still come as of Oct 1 — but only Westport resident dogs!

I’m guessing that the October 1 date for all dogs was selected semi-arbitrarily, and semi-because no one expects huge crowds during leaf-peeping season.

But this is a community blog.  Click “Comments” to weigh in on the date, the regulations, and anything else dog poop-and-pee related.

Pre- or post- peeing and pooping at Compo Beach.

Fred finds joy wherever he lives.  A longtime Manhattan resident, he loves the city.

Fred Cantor, in his Fresh Meadows hat.

In his pre-teen years — the 1950s and early ’60s — he lived in Fresh Meadows.  That pocket of northeastern Queens — centered on a housing development built for World War II veterans, which Lewis Mumford described in the New Yorker as “perhaps the most positive and exhilarating example of large-scale community planning in this country” — is the focus of Fred’s new book.

He and co-author Debra Davidson have chronicled the history of their neighborhood in Fresh Meadows, a photo project that’s part of the “Images of America” series.

But this story is not about Queens or Manhattan.  It’s about Westport, and what Fred has learned growing up here, then returning to live full time.

(Full disclosure:  Fred is one of my oldest and best friends from high school.  He’s also a frequent commenter on “06880.”)

“I am fortunate to have grown up in 2 special hometowns,” Fred says.

“Each has given me an appreciation for the other that I might not otherwise have — especially regarding some things many people take for granted here in Westport.”

In Westport — where he moved in 1963 — Fred says that he immediately noticed “the beauty of the stone walls,” something notably missing from Fresh Meadows.  To this day, he still marvels at the sight.

Fred finds beauty too at Compo Beach.  “I was always taken with the sweeping crescent shape, leading out to the green expanse of Sherwood Island,” he says.

Long Beach– his beach in Queens — was “your typical straight line of sand facing the water.”

The view at Longshore — looking out on the marina to Cockenoe and beyond — was “so different than anything I had experienced in Queens,” he says.

“I still enjoy that view when I’m at the Longshore pool.  It’s like being at a great vacation resort.”

Fred wonders if people who grew up here appreciate that in the same way.

Sid, Pearl and Fred Cantor, at home in Westport.

He says he always thought of “the open area and architecture in the area of Toquet Hall and the old Westport Bank & Trust (now Patagonia) as quintessential small-town America, and an old-fashioned town square.”

That too is far different from what he had — and loved — in Queens.

Plus, Fred says, “when we moved here there was a corner drug store, Thompson’s, where Tiffany’s is now located.  It had a lunch counter that served milkshakes.” He felt like he’d walked onto the set of “Leave it to Beaver.”

Living in Westport gave Fred an appreciation of how he could walk to nearly  everything in Fresh Meadows — a direct result of the community’s site plan.  In Westport, he depended on his mother for rides.

In Fresh Meadows Fred lived in a small 2-bedroom, 1-bath apartment — and was quite happy.  That experience, he says, “taught me that you really don’t need a big home or a lot of possessions to truly enjoy life.”  To this day, he says, “I have never lived in a big house.”

Of course, Fred wonders what might have happened if his parents had not made the move.

“Chances are I wouldn’t have discovered soccer or The Remains” — 2 of his passions.

And, he says, “I probably would not have been accepted at Yale, since the local high school in Fresh Meadows had nowhere near the reputation that Staples did.”

The fact that Fred (an attorney) conceived and worked on a variety of diverse creative projects as an adult — producing a play and a movie, writing a book, co-writing a song paying tribute to former Red Sox pitcher Bill Monbouquette — “is probably in some way a reflection of having grown up in Westport, where there has always been such an emphasis on the arts,” Fred says.

“Obviously, the move to Westport as a kid enriched my life in so many ways.”

Fred concludes:  “This is probably way more info than you needed.  But all of this has gotten me to do a lot of reflecting on this lately.”

Actually, Fred’s insights are perfect.  All of us are a reflection of when and how we grew up — and where.

Not all of us are lucky enough to have both a Fresh Meadows, and a Westport, in our lives.

(Click here for a New York Daily News story on Fred Cantor’s new book.)

Now that ought to keep the floodwaters away from Soundview Drive!

Just like the town should — and will — do any time there’s damage to public property.

No matter where in Westport it occurs.

The Compo Beach seawall, after trying to protect Soundview Avenue from Hurricane Irene.

A Compo Beach resident — and alert “06880″ reader — did just that the other day.  The occasion was a story here about the seawall — it was damaged by Hurricane Irene, and of course Westporters are divided over how to repair it, who should pay for it, and whether beach dwellers are actual human beings deserving of help, or over-entitled rich folks deserving of having their homes washed away.

The Compo resident lands squarely (and naturally) on the side of the seawall being every Westporter’s business.

“The blog comments were of course typical of non-understanding Westporters,” the resident says.

They don’t realize that if the wall is washed away Soundview Avenue gets washed out too, and they can’t get down to do their triathlons here, eat at Joey’s, party on South Beach, walk their dogs (and poop on our plants), see the fireworks (and try to crash our party), stroll on the boulevard (and snoop at our BBQs), or just drive by and gawk at storm damage.

But our Soundview reader was just getting started.

A follow-up email noted:

They also come catapulting over walls and fences, when not watching where they’re going on bicycles, skateboards, etc.

They leave all their litter on the beach — and often leave new $100 beach chairs with price tags attached.  And brand new toys galore.

They try to join our late-night, festively lit outside gatherings, assuming this is “Splash.”

They ask for diapers, Band-Aids, ice, corkscrews, bathrooms, warm clothes, mixer, water, booze, mustard , mayo, towels, rides home, parking spaces, and baby sitters.

Two families (sans nannies that weekend) have actually left the beach at dusk, and forgotten a child — for extended periods of time.

We probably can’t mention the obvious sex acts under blankets, or just plain parking on side streets, running into the water and “doing it” in the water with clothes on while folks are having early evening cocktails, or in the moon path on the shoreline (sans blanket).

Living on Soundview sounds pretty exciting!

But wait — there’s more!

A 3rd email added:

I forgot to mention people who drive by at dusk and drop their home garbage bags into beach cans, and think we don’t see them.

And those who come and take the plants we plant in our border gardens, thinking they are theirs for some reason, and pick all our blossoms that hang into the streets, and play thumping music so loud on their car radios that they bounces us out of bed.

Or unwanted church services set up in front of houses.

And someone’s ashes dumped where we sit to sunbathe, or that are blown by the wind onto our patio.

Without the seawall, Soundview Drive would be gone.

No more drivers.  No more ash-scatterers.  No more fornicators.

Just peace and quiet.

And the occasional house-destroying hurricane.

Not all beachgoers are this considerate and civil, Compo residents know.

She’s acutely aware of the beauty of Long Island Sound — and the power of nature.

She knows when a storm is coming, and what to do when it hits.

And as a former president of the Compo Beach Improvement Association, she’s been intimately involved in the political process of protecting the beach — and the residents across the street.

Gail can recite the history of the retaining wall that runs from the boardwalk all the way to Schlaet’s Point jetty at Hillspoint Road.

In 1998 Gail Cunningham Coen -- a tall woman -- demonstrated how high the Compo Beach seawall had once been.

It was built over 70 years ago to retain the seawaters and protect the new community of homes at Compo Beach, stretching all the way to the Minuteman statue.

Since that time, sand has built up against the seawall.

A nor’easter in December 1992 caused memorable devastation on Soundview and side streets.  After that storm, many residents raised the heights of their homes.

In 1998 the CBIA staged a “Save the Seawall” event to show town officials how tall the wall had once been.

Last week — in the aftermath of Hurricane Irene — Gail was meeting with her insurance adjuster.  She saw a group of men at the roped-off site by the wall.

When she asked if they were going to take the opportunity to repair and restore the entire wall — “since Mother Nature had so kindly excavated it with surgeon-like precision along its entire length,” Gail notes — they said no.  They’d work only on the part that was roped off.

Hurricane Irene swept away plenty of Compo Beach sand -- and exposed long-lost footings for the seawall.

Gail is concerned that town officials will “do a patch job and then push sand back up against the wall to hide the cracks and crevices, leaving us with a weak little pie crust of a wall — poised and ready to find our homes and possessions in a bowl of seawater and sludge all over again.”

Town officials and the state Department of Environmental Protection have had many discussions about the seawall.  Their engineers say it’s not the height of the sand that affects whether water overtops the wall — it’s the height of the water.

In other words, if tides are 12 feet above normal, they’ll be 12 feet above the normal sound height — not 12 feet above the sand.  Water will flow over the wall regardless.

Water seeks its own level.  So too, apparently, do storms at Compo Beach.

What remains is incredible to see.

Here, for example, is the seawall along Soundview Drive:

I’d heard stories of how, years ago, the wall was much higher — and the beach much lower.

Now, thanks to Irene’s fury, we can actually see how high it once was.  Many more steps have been uncovered, along with concrete footings buried for decades.

And we can understand that, when it was built, the seawall was actually a “breakwater” — not the ramp it turned into, rocketing water and sand over the top, past Soundview and onto the roads and homes beyond.

Meanwhile, over on Bradley Street — and in much of the neighborhood — the scene looks like this:

In a matter of hours saltwater killed grass, plants and leaves.  Lawns and yards look like it’s mid-October (without the color) — not early September.

Longtime residents say the greenery will return next spring.

That’s many months from now.  This fall, Compo’s usual fantastic foliage will bear a distinctly different hue.

“You screen them out,” she says.  “Otherwise, you feel like an animal in a zoo.”

Recently, though, Cornelia had 2 interesting experiences with her push lawnmower.  Passersby — including a guy and his girlfriend, and another woman — started chatting.  They asked questions about the mower.  Cornelia offered to let them try it.  They did, and helped cut her grass.

Days later, Cornelia and her husband evacuated during Hurricane Irene.  When they returned, the seawall was gone.  Debris was everywhere.  Their Lark sailboat was filled with water and sand.

Though the police blocked access to the beach, a constant stream of walkers and cyclists gaped at the damage.

The post-storm scene on Bradley Street, not far from the Olsens' Hillspoint Road home. (Photo/Chris Rueli, Westport Patch)

Cornelia asked a bunch of men in their 40s to help move the boat.  They couldn’t budge it.

The Olsens did their best to dig it out.  A younger group — including a couple of women — wandered by.  One carried a box.

Intrigued, Cornelia asked what was in it.  Turns out it was from a wedding scheduled for the day before — on the Jersey shore.  Of course, it had been canceled.

Cornelia asked who the groom was.  Together, they commiserated about the storm.  Then the group heaved and hoed.  The boat was freed.

Soon, the woman who a few days earlier had helped mow Cornelia’s lawn walked by, with 2 dogs and her boyfriend.  The women hugged.

“What happened to our grass?” the woman asked.

Later, a boy with a ladder strolled past.  It was the Olsens’.  Cornelia’s husband asked for it back.

“Okay,” the young man said.  “But I found it on Compo Beach.”

The storm “rearranged” a lot of things, Cornelia notes.

But it also made for great random encounters.  And for a few intriguing, folkloric stories that will be told over and over again, for years and years to come.

Stuart McCarthy calls it — only partly in jest — the best day of the year.

At 6 p.m. the lifeguards leave for the last time.  Finally, the veteran Parks and Recreation director can stop worrying about the safety of thousands of beachgoers.  When the sun sets that Monday, McCarthy will relax for the first time since May.

It’s been quite a summer.  The weather has been spectacular — until this coming weekend, anyway.  The beaches were packed.  And — with the notable exception of a parking lot-rage attendant-shoving incident during the fireworks — it’s been a remarkably incident-free season.

Stuart McCarthy (Photo/Paul Schott for the Westport News)

Compo has been “as busy as it’s ever been,” McCarthy says.  He’s seen a noticeable uptick in non-resident parking.  Other non-residents take the train to Saugatuck, then ride taxis — or walk.

Over the past few years, McCarthy notes, there’s been a change in the way people use the beach.  Gone are the days when you slathered on coconut oil, and baked in the sun for hours.

“People now come in stages,” the parks director says.  There’s far greater use of the picnic area, athletic facilities, playground and pavilion.

Not to mention bikers, joggers, strollers and dogs (on leashes, of course).

More folks come at night, too.  “What better place is there than South Beach during a beautiful sunset?” McCarthy asks.  “There’s a lot of people, food, action.”

Big crowds can mean big headaches.  A major part of the beach staff’s job is keeping problems to a minimum.

Back in the day, Parks and Rec employees were called “security.”  Now, they’re “guest services.”

The change is far more than cosmetic.

“The edge is off the way our employees interact with people,” McCarthy says.  “The first rule we follow now is:  See if you can figure out how to say ‘yes.’”

There is constant activity on Compo Beach.

McCarthy knows that some beachgoers would like stronger enforcement of regulations like no alcohol on the main beach, and no glass bottles everywhere.

“Our staff does not have enforcement capabilities,” he says.  “We can’t give out tickets.  So we say, very nicely, ‘please don’t do that.’  We ask for cooperation.  Sometimes it’s effective, sometimes not.”

But, McCarthy notes, “people go to the beach to have fun.  We try to create a fun environment, so long as what they do does not negatively impact other people.”

McCarthy is proud of his “guest services” staff.  Many return year after year, bringing continuity and experience.

Lifeguards too are in the guest services business.  They pick up litter, resolve conflicts before they escalate, and help create a positive, friendly environment.

The job of a Parks and Rec director includes collecting fireworks tickets -- and doing some guest services work himself.

“For years we always said ‘no’ to things like playing ball on the beach, skimboarding and boogie boards,” McCarthy says.  “The reason was because maybe one person complained.

“Now we say those things are okay — so long as people don’t go crazy.  And our employees use discretion, to make sure no one gets close to crazy.”

Dan DeVito — who manages guest services, lifeguards and the marina staff — has helped set the positive tone, McCarthy says.  DeVito’s assistant, Lee Halpern, is also “tremendous.”

Crucial contributions come too from the maintenance staff.  Trash crews work 7 days a week.  On the busiest days, collection continues for 12 hours.

The most impressive maintenance job of all begins immediately after the fireworks, as soon as the huge crowd leaves.  By early morning — a few hours later — the beach is as pristine as on opening day.

With its pop-up tents, babble of languages and dawn-to-way-past-dusk action, Compo is “more welcoming” than in the past, McCarthy says.

“I love that it’s busy,” he adds.  “A huge variety of people use it in a huge variety of ways.”

And — much as he likes what he sees every day during the summer — after Labor Day, they’re on their own.

The ramshackle shed — located where the volleyball courts are now — was the place to see and be seen.  (You didn’t even need a sticker; you parked right in front.)

I flipped burgers, fried fries and poured sodas for a couple of teenage summers.  Like I said, it was a dream job — except when Chubby’s kids wandered in at 7:59 p.m., seconds before closing, and ordered food as soon as we’d cleaned the grill.

It’s now a few several many years later.   Chubby’s gave way to Arcudi’s, then another concessionaire no one remembers.  Since 1989, Joey Romeo has run the place.  He upgraded it from a stand to a restaurant.  He added menu items, lengthened the hours, stretched out the calendar.

But some things never change.  Something about eating at the beach still makes food taste special.  It’s still an insanely weather-dependent business.

And it’s still a great job for high school and college students.

Joey Romeo, by the shore.

Joey comes by his burger chops naturally.  His father ran the food concessions at Cummings Beach and Cole Island in Stamford; his uncle spent many years as the concessionaire at Greenwich’s Tod’s Point.

Growing up, Joey worked at the beaches — and loved it.

He became the 1st tenant after the town of Westport renovated the old bathhouses, and moved the concession stand to its present location.  So far, he’s the only one.

What’s kept him here?  “I love the water.  I love being here in the summer.  I love Compo Beach!” he says.

And beach-goers love Joey.

For one thing, he’s got great food.

For another, he listens to those customers.  Lobster rolls (now one of his most popular items), fish and chips, Boar’s Head cold cuts, portobello mozzarella sandwiches — those and many more selections resulted directly from requests.

To serve those customers, Joey’s now opens earlier (9 a.m.) and closes later (9 p.m.) each summer.  He fires up the grill in late March, and is there on weekends through November — sometimes beyond.

Kelly Petropulos, Paul Van Zanten and Sam Reiner carry on the Compo concession tradition.

The concessionaire is a firm believer in “buy local.”  When area resident Adrian Pace brought over Forte — a new healthy, high-protein gelato — Joey snapped it up.

There’s local art and photography on the walls, local T-shirts and postcards at the counter.

He even sells Melissa & Doug toys.  Hey, they’re local too.

But — behind the lobster rolls and trendy toys — Joey’s is still a beach joint.

“Honestly, I haven’t seen much change — in my customers or employees — over the years,” Joey says.

“If you look around, it’s really no different than it was 20 years ago.”

This doesn’t change either:   talking about the weather.

“The summer started slowly.  We had a wet spring, but since then it’s been very good,” Joey says.

“People complain about the heat, but it’s better than rain.  Any day it’s not raining, I’m happy.”

The same words could have come straight from the mouths of Joey’s father and uncle.

Or Chubby Lane, back when I was working the grill for countless Compo customers.

Plus Chubby’s @#$%^&* kids.

Then a swimmer ventures too far from shore.

Next, someone asks where to buy a beach chair.

Welcome to the world of a Compo Beach lifeguard.

Westport’s few dozen guards — male and female; high school, college age and older; Westporters, Westonites, Norwalkers, Wiltonites and beyond — are like the salt air:  an important part of the beach experience, but often overlooked.  And seldom noted.

It’s time that changed.

Assistant directors Kaitlyn Mello and Jamie Whittendale take a brief break on the boardwalk.

Kaitlyn Mello is a 2005 Staples graduate who is one of 2 assistant waterfront directors, serving under director Brandon Ogiba.  The other day she sat in the lifeguard station and talked about her job.

It was a choppy interview — walkie-talkies squawked, and Kaitlyn’s eyes kept roaming the beach — but that’s the way it should be.

“We’ve had a really good summer so far,” she says.  “The staff is really strong — a lot of senior guards, and the newcomers are stepping up.”

Compo lifeguards work 8-hour shifts, 10 a.m. to 6 p.m.:  1 hour in the chair, 1 hour off (sweeping the beach, tending to first aid, etc.).  Each hour, the new shift walks to their posts as a team, then come back in together at the end.

(Burying Hill has 2 full-time guards — important, because of the treacherous tides and elderly population.  The Longshore pool has its own staff.)

This summer’s weather has been great.  One result:  Compo is crammed.

Things get hectic.  Vigilance is particularly important during camp hours.  “We work as a team with the counselors,” Kaitlyn says.  “There’s constant communication.”

Justin Rende, at the ready.

Guards also communicate with parents, when the parents communicate in their own way.  “We see moms talking with their friends, or on their cell phones, with their backs to the water when their kids are playing or swimming,” she says as diplomatically as possible.  “We try to make sure everyone is watching.”

A major guard issue is swimmers who think the buoys are too close — especially at low tide.  “It’s our discretion how far out to allow people,” Kaitlyn explains.  “High tide can get pretty deep.  There’s no reason to go too far.”

Also big:  enforcing the no-fishing ban, and keeping boats from coming too near.

Injuries have been minor this year.  One man slipped on the jetty; a volleyball player dislocated his shoulder.  The guards are primary caregivers until EMS arrives.

Guards drill every weekday, unless the beach is too crowded or they can’t spare anyone.  They practice rescues, CPR and other emergencies.  The time always changes; sometimes volunteers of different ages help out.

A typical scene at the Compo Beach lifeguard station.

Much of the guards’ job is public relations.  They answer questions, explain and enforce rules, and do their best to make the beach experience a great one for the enormous variety of folks who swim, play, stroll, picnic and do whatever else they do every day.

That’s not always easy, particularly this year with its surge of out-of-town guests.

“We’ve seen, and the main gate agrees, a lot of people from New York and other places,” Kaitlyn says.  “And a lot of people walk over from the train station, or take a taxi.  When they ask if they can buy beach chairs, we know they’re not from here.”

The best part of the job is being outside.  And, Kaitlyn adds, “I love being able to help people.  I think I’m prepared for every situation.”

Including requests like, “Can you remove the jellyfish?”

“I don’t think so,” Kaitlyn says.  “They were here first.”

Our always-beautiful town has, in many ways, never looked better.  Say what you will about the ills that buffet Westport, and the country; this has been a kick-ass summer.

Before it gets away, we should reflect on a few familiar summer scenes.  And think, for a moment, how lucky we are to have them.

Sure, it's a downtown business district, with chain stores up the wazoo. But a few steps away flows a fine little river. And there are plenty of places to watch it go by.

The inlet leading to -- and, when the tide turns, from -- Sherwood Mill Pond is one of Westport's hidden wonders. The wooden bridge leading to Compo Cove is a special place to see (and span) it.

The stretch of land at the end of Compo Beach is called Schlaet's Point. Countless bikers, joggers, walkers and slowing drivers know it as one of the prettiest spots in town. This summer, for the first time in memory, it's even attracted swimmers.

There's nothing like a sunset on Compo's South Beach. Though a moonrise there is pretty cool too.

Every day at the beach is not, well, a day at the beach. But even storm clouds can be beautiful.

They were at the west (far) end of South Beach, just to the right of the jetty with 2 trees, having drinks and gazing out at Cockenoe Island.

Suddenly, a 20-something woman drove her Jeep onto the beach to the left of the trees — and parked almost on the jetty.  Linda, her husband and other beach-goers stared in amazement as the woman sat in her car, enjoying the view.

The wide-frame view.

Several minutes later, 2 female Parks and Rec employees arrived.  They told her she couldn’t be there.

No problem!

She backed up, turned around — and immediately turned left onto the one-way road, racing around to enjoy the harbor view across from Owenoke.

Parks and Rec were still on the case.  They told Very Important Jeep Woman that she could have hurt a driver, jogger, walker or biker on her wrong-way jaunt.

As if on cue, moments later 2 grandparents and their young granddaughter — in a stroller — strolled around the corner.

The driver reacted as only she could.  She screamed at the Parks and Rec employees.

Her argument?  She hadn’t done anything wrong.

Linda — and everyone else on the beach, except Herself — watched, flabbergasted.

But, Linda says, “I was delighted at how well the 2 Parks and Rec girls were on the job.”

If the first jetty doesn't work, drive the wrong way to another nice spot.

The bad news:  Approximately 800 kids still need to be placed.

Estrella -- Martha Mintzer's Fresh Air Fund "daughter" -- plays in the pool.

For 135 summers the Fresh Air Fund has given inner-city youngsters the chance for vacations.  For nearly as many years, Westporters have opened their homes to young New Yorkers.

Families — some of whom develop ongoing relationships with the children they host, as well as their siblings and parents — do whatever activities they wish with their Fresh Air kids: the beach, Levitt, library programs and much more.

Camp Mahackeno takes Fresh Air Fund children for free (if there’s room).

A Staples student has offered free swim lessons to any youngsters.

Some families don’t do anything organized.  Hanging around is plenty of fun too.

Ryan, Lauren and Matthew Beranek, with Della, do a typical summer activity: a lemonade stand.

Host families need not include young children.  An empty-nester couple just took two girls.  They — the kids and older parents — had a blast.

Fresh Air Fund youngsters come for 1 or 2 weeks.  Potential host families — who can choose the gender and age range of “their” kids — must undergo an interview.  The house is checked for safety.  References are checked too.

Area coordinator Martha Mintzer is pleased with the 50 area families she’s got so far.  It’s more than last year.

But she can’t help thinking about the hundreds still waiting to come.

(To volunteer as a Fresh Air Fund host, email martha_mintzer@yahoo.com, or call 203-226-6627.)

Now the Really Smart Selfish People reserve (non-reservable) cookout tables and grills at Compo’s South Beach with official-looking police tape.

Here’s how entitled some people think they are:

The tape is wrapped around the grill right at the spot where the sign says “Reserving of tables & cookers is prohibited.”

But the balloon does add a nice festive touch.

Without prompting, the owner said:  “People are happy.”

That evening, walking at the beach, I met a Westport couple.  Out of the blue the woman said:  “Isn’t life good?  I feel so happy.”

What’s behind this sudden spasm of good feeling?

Perhaps it really is “out of the blue” — the bright blue skies we enjoyed for several days, along with perfect temperatures and low humidity.

Perhaps  we’ve finally shaken off the “blue” feeling we had throughout the long, snowy winter, followed by a cold, wet spring.

Sure, storm clouds loom.  The economy remains rough, and next month we could see a monetary crisis that dwarfs anything America has ever faced.

But for now, for many of us, summer in Westport is good.  The weather is nice (except for today).  The beach and Sound are beautiful, and there are tons of things to do in and around town.

We’re happy.  No need to over-analyze it.  Let’s leave it at that.

Have a great weekend!

The beach was pretty crowded today.

Hey, it’s the 4th of July!

One Westport woman was miffed.

“All I want is to sit on the beach!” she said.

So, apparently, did a lot of other people.

That’s what it’s there for:  Everyone.

PS:  “06880″ has already waded into the Compo controversy over saving picnic tables and swaths of sand.

Today we saw the newest twist:

That’s right.  If you park your car diagonally — on the 2nd busiest day of the summer — you can make sure your later-arriving grilling friends don’t have to walk as far.

As far, that is, as the folks you’ve just screwed out of a perfectly good parking spot.