It’s a golden summer afternoon in Stanfordville, and I know Nancy will be happy to see me when I wander up the road. I pour a gin and tonic into my special outdoor glass, a ritual as much as a refreshment, and set off on foot.
Our wooded neighborhood, lush and humming with life, always delights me. We Ohio transplants share a Midwestern fondness for spontaneous visits, an old-fashioned kind of neighborliness that has found new life here. We both love being outdoors — reading, sitting in the quiet, or simply hoping for a friend to stop by.
Nancy is 83, a widow. I am 67, married, with three children and a grandson. Our friendship — serendipitous? Intentional? A little of both? — has grown in tandem with the surprising kinship that has blossomed in our small, once-insular community.
For years, our corner of “upstate” New York has drawn city dwellers in search of an escape, some as vacationers, others as second-homeowners. But when the pandemic turned days into months and months into years, many families made a commitment: They moved here for good. And with that shift, our neighborhood opened up.
The spirit of the place evolved.
A few residents have been here since the original development in the 1970s. Two younger couples recently moved into the last of the new homes, one of them welcoming a baby. A lovely couple from the city settled in part-time — though one of them had deep roots here. My friend and her husband had been in the neighborhood for over a decade. Across the street, a local couple returned home. A neighbor with two majestic Akitas had long made the area her own. New families arrived as older residents moved on, bringing the laughter and commotion of young children.
And then, somehow, we all started to know one another.
For 25 years, my family and I lived here in comfortable anonymity. What took us so long?
Dare I give credit to COVID? Confined to our homes, we wandered outside. We met each other walking our dogs — or just walking for the sake of it, for exercise, for sanity.
Nancy and another longtime neighbor, who had lived here for nearly 40 years, started meeting up for a beer in their gardens. Soon, others began gathering in one another’s yards, a glass of wine or a chair pulled up under a tree. We talked, shared stories, and learned about each other’s lives and families. We planned more gatherings. We checked in on one another. We helped when help was needed.
For as long as I can remember, I had imagined what it would be like to have a true community — a place where I could run into neighbors, stop for a chat, share little moments of nothing and everything.
Now, at last, we had one.
The library played its part. Some of the older residents had long been volunteers there, and when I started helping out a few years ago, I met them — along with young families who had made the library part of their routine. We attended programs together, ran into each other on borrowed time. New neighbors, almost without fail, stopped by for a library card as soon as they moved in.
Credit: Debra Skiver Cardillo
And so, over time, we discovered that our little development had a name — a rather grand one, we thought. In good humor, a group of us, women ranging in age from our 40s to our 80s, formed the High Ridge Estates Ladies Society. Lah-di-dah!
We celebrated birthdays with theme parties, met in the gazebo of a retired postmaster, gathered under the lilacs in a friend’s yard, or sat by the pool at my house. But it wasn’t just about socializing. We offered rides to the mechanic, accompanied each other to doctor’s appointments, dropped off soup when someone was sick. Sometimes, it was just a text, a walk, a hug.
And it grew.
Each time we rallied together — when someone needed help, when loss struck, when joy arrived unannounced — it felt like a quiet revolution. A testament to friendship that transcends age, occupation, lifestyle, even political beliefs.
Now, as summer gives way to fall, I visit Nancy again, as I often do. The afternoon light catches the brilliant oranges and golds of the trees, casting long, warm shadows. This is the kind of light that makes time feel slower, more precious.
We talk, as we always do, about the present and the past.
After all these years, I am still astonished by this life we have built — by the way a neighborhood I have known for decades has become something new. Safe, beautiful, filled with people who are interesting and kind, available and engaged.
There are no walls here. Just nature, goodwill, and a kind of gentle, collective caretaking.
Are we living in a place that no longer exists? Or have we stumbled onto something others might yet create for themselves?
We are hopeful. And we are also looking forward to our next gathering.
Join us?
Chronicles is The New Pine Plains Herald’s memoir series, chronicling life in and around Pine Plains, Ancram, Gallatin, Milan and Stanford. The Herald welcomes stories from readers that highlight memories and lived experiences from all people of all backgrounds. Send your submissions to editor@newpineplainsherald.org.