Long Island

Question: Whatever happened to Field 9 at Jones Beach? — Reader Carol Ludwig, Wantagh 
If you visited Jones Beach before 1975, you probably remember parking at Field 9. Perhaps a family member or neighbor called it “the best one” and urged you to park there for its proximity to the ocean. Or maybe, you avoided it at all costs, because it was so popular there was never a space available. 
But if you visit Jones Beach today, you’d never know Field 9 existed. So what happened? 
That proximity to the ocean that made it so popular was also the undoing of Field 9. 
The parking lot was closed for good&nbsp;because erosion had severely undermined it, said George Gorman, deputy regional director of New York State Parks. The field was last used in 1975, according to park records.&nbsp; 
Gorman said the original&nbsp;building at Field 9, located east of Field 6, was designed to look like a boat and offered amenities such as changing rooms, bathrooms and a snack bar.&nbsp;The field and a building that stood there were demolished in 1977. 
Jones Beach State Park, a grand production of urban planner Robert Moses, opened in 1929, but it wasn’t until 1937 that Field 9 opened, according to state park records. 
Field 9 later pops up in fishing coverage when it became a popular field for fishermen, families and young people in the 1950s and '60s. 
Newsday articles from the time show that from the late '50s on, tension grew between fishermen and swimmers over who got access to the most desirable ocean beaches, Fields 6 and 9. Fishermen said&nbsp;it had the best fishing and was easier to get to than the other fields where fishing was allowed. 
Rowdy teens also took a liking to the beach as an oceanside hangout spot. In 1953, a group of 30 or 40 teens having a party at the beach damaged fences and lit them on fire, causing $500 in damage. 
Later, much of the social activity moved toward other parts of the beach. Pete Ruggiero, 69, said he visited&nbsp;Field 9 in the mid 1960s, when he was a Levittown high school student, because he’d heard the body surfing there was better. But it was a quiet beach and as he got older, he and his friends wanted to be closer to the action on the boardwalk. 
Ruggiero is a founding member of the Jones Beach Bums, a kind of alumni association for a large group of Long Island natives who hung out at Jones Beach as teens and young adults in the 1970s. 
“It was a nice place if you wanted to read a book and you didn’t want to be disturbed,” Ruggiero, now of upstate Brewster, said. “It was a farther away beach so it wasn’t a main concession stand and you just didn’t have access to the stuff at the main beach.” 
Over time, the weather and natural tides ate away at the sand supporting it all and Gorman said at a certain point, it was no longer feasible to keep it open. A Newsday story from 1978 noted that pipe infrastructure may also have contributed to the erosion. 
Workers demolished the building&nbsp;and left some areas of the concrete lot to be overtaken by nature. Some chunks of concrete and asphalt remained for decades, popping up in photos from Hurricane Gloria in 1985 and superstorm Sandy in 2012. 
In 2018, there’s nothing left. It’s unlikely that any other lot will face the same fate as Field 9, since the sand on Jones Beach has changed course and is actually growing, Gorman said, including where Field 9 once stood. 
“It’s just sand dunes now,” he said. “If you walked along the beach you’d never know it was there.”

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What happened to Field 9 at Jones Beach?

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Fishers Island is part of Long Island? 
Indeed it is, thanks in part to a&nbsp;conflict in colonial charters&nbsp;dating back to the 1660s, according to Pierce Rafferty, director of the island's Henry L. Ferguson Museum.&nbsp; 
As the crow flies, Fishers Island is closer to Connecticut —&nbsp;and even Rhode Island —&nbsp;than it is to Long Island. The hamlet even has a ZIP code beginning with 06 like those in Connecticut, instead of 1 like communities in New York. 
Despite its location, the island wound up as part of New York, an unusual arrangement that "can be traced to the Duke of York's 1664 land patent, a document that trumped Connecticut's prior claim to the island,"&nbsp;Rafferty wrote on the museum's website.
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On Monday morning, a tornado touched down on Fishers Island, crumpling wood-frame&nbsp;buildings, uprooting trees&nbsp;and thrusting into the spotlight the swath of land's 230 year-round residents, who prize their island's seclusion. 
"Visitors should understand there's a long-standing tradition of neutrality or even hostility to the outside world," Rafferty said. "It's not a simple place to drop into. You have to plan your trip." 
The island has one grocery store and a single doctor.&nbsp;There are no taxis and, for more than seven months out of the year, there are no restaurants, Rafferty said.&nbsp; 
The island is not easy to reach. Though it’s part of the Town of Southold, it's only accessible by sea —&nbsp;a ferry from New London, Connecticut —&nbsp;or by small plane. 
The population swells in the summer to about 3,000 people, including some of the country’s most affluent families. For much&nbsp;of its history, the island was used for dairy farming and raising livestock. 
Because of its strategic location, the outpost was raided by British troops during the American Revolution. 
Resort development&nbsp;began in the 1870s and for 12 years it was a day excursion destination, but beginning in 1890, Fishers Island shifted&nbsp;to a seasonal resort that catered to an exclusive clientele, Rafferty said.&nbsp; 
"It's an island that values its privacy and sort of likes to be left alone, quite frankly," Rafferty said. &nbsp; 
The number of full-time residents has been dropping for decades, sounding the alarm to residents who have come to prize the idyllic island for its isolation, but who fear that if the population continues to shrink it may disappear as a year-round community. In recent years, the island has invested in affordable housing and its school's&nbsp;magnet programs attract students from Connecticut. &nbsp;

Suffolk

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Fishers Island part of Long Island? Credit the Duke of York

Fishers Island part of LI? Credit the Duke of York

LIFISHERS181031_GALLERY

It’s one of her community’s biggest mysteries, but after years of researching, a Bellmore teen thinks she’s made a break in the case. 
Mary Catherine D’Alto Mutone, 15, said she’s always wondered how Bellmore was named. No one knows for sure, according to Martha DiVittorio, who hosts local history nights at the Bellmore Library. Some say it’s derived from the French, “belle mer,” meaning beautiful sea. Many&nbsp;subscribe to a charming — but likely fictitious — tale about an LIRR conductor who would always ring the “bell more” as he passed through the town to signal his sweetheart. &nbsp; 
From an early age, Mutone was skeptical of the local legend, which author Richard Winsche also discredits in his book, "The History of Nassau County Community Place-Names,"&nbsp;calling it "completely fictitious and without merit." 
“It’s a nice story, but it just seems like folklore,” she said. 
So Mutone said she was excited when six years ago, she found “Belmore” with the date 1818 etched into the walls of the Temple of Dendur — an ancient Egyptian structure that now rests in the Metropolitan Museum of Art in Manhattan. Mutone’s uncle&nbsp;Nick D’Alto&nbsp;remembers pointing out the discrepancy in the spelling, but Mutone was still giddy, and the find would spark her six-year investigation. 
“She was talking about it the whole car ride back,” said D’Alto, 57. 
Mutone began digging and found that the graffiti was left by an Earl of Belmore who traveled to Egypt and left his name on some of the artifacts. She didn’t find any evidence that the town was named for the Belmores&nbsp;— unlike Belmore, New South Wales, a town of about 13,000 in Australia — but Mutone does think the family’s indirectly connected. 
During the 19th century, near when the second Earl of Belmore traveled the Mediterranean in a yacht and began collecting Egyptian antiques, she believes&nbsp;the Belmore name became associated with elegance and luxury, and&nbsp;over time products and places were named Belmore or Bellmore to lend them&nbsp;an air of sophistication.&nbsp;She cites a Bellmore top hat sold in the early 20th century, marketed as the "superior to all men's hats"&nbsp;promising&nbsp;to "set its wearers apart as well dressed" and "discriminately well hatted." 
Mutone found a&nbsp;1952 article in the Nassau Review-Star that&nbsp;seems to support this theory. Bellmore was adopted to give the community “more distinction,” the author writes, quoting those who proposed the name&nbsp;in the story.&nbsp; 
Before it became Bellmore the region cycled through a handful of names: Little Neck, Little Neck South, Bridgehaven, New Bridge, Cedar&nbsp; Valley and Smithville, according to Natalie Naylor, president of the Nassau County Historical Society.&nbsp; 
In 1870, Bellmore station first appeared on railroad timetables, Naylor said. Mutone found what she thinks is&nbsp;the first printed appearance of Bellmore in an 1869 story in the Queens County Sentinel. The article mentions the establishment of a Bellmore station between Merrick and Ridgewood, now called Wantagh. Shortly afterward, the village became known simply as Bellmore, Naylor said.&nbsp; 
“I’m proud of what I’ve found even if it turns out it’s not related,” said Mutone, who will be a sophomore at John F. Kennedy High School this fall. “It’s something I’ve worked really hard on.” 
Over the years, DiVittorio has closely followed Mutone’s progress. The teen regularly goes to the library’s local history meetups to present some of her findings, and DiVittorio said she thinks her theory “has legs.” 
“Nothing contradicts what Mary Catherine has found,” DiVittorio said. “It’s very difficult to say for sure but she has made some decent connections.”

Nassau

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How was Bellmore named? Teen spends six years on research

Teen spends 6 years studying community's name

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<h4>Why isn’t there an Exit 47 on the Long Island Expressway?</h4> 
The short answer: This exit is indeed missing, and in fact, Exit 54 is missing, too. Exit 47 was never built. Exit 54 was in use at one time, but eventually closed to improve traffic conditions. 
The long answer: The construction of the Long Island Expressway began in 1939 in Long Island City, Queens. Over the next three decades, it extended deep into Suffolk County, reaching its last exit, 73, in 1972. 
Most of the expressway’s construction was supervised by New York’s master builder Robert Moses. He had big plans for Exit 47. 
Moses wanted to extend the Bethpage State Parkway’s northern tip in Bethpage all the way to Lloyd Harbor on the North Shore. The highway was to reach today’s Caumsett State Historic Park Preserve, and the extension above the Northern State Parkway would have been renamed the Caumsett State Parkway. 
To reach Lloyd Harbor, the extension would inevitably intersect with the LIE. Exit 47 was specifically marked for this proposed intersection. 
But the Bethpage State Parkway extension remained only a proposal as late as the 1970s. In 1986, Newsday reported that the proposal was dead. 
Other exits on the expressway only let out on one side of the highway, but Exit 54 -- like Exit 47 -- is missing in both directions. When 54 was an up-and-running exit, it let out onto Wicks Road in Brentwood and was the most heavily trafficked segment of the expressway through the 1980s, according to the state Department of Transportation. 
The LIE was designed to accommodate 85,000 cars per day at the time, according to a 1986 Newsday story. The DOT found that 143,900 cars were driving past Exit 54 each day. 
In the Newsday story, the DOT pointed to the relatively new Hauppauge Industrial Park, which was becoming Long Island’s largest industrial complex, and the design of the LIE’s eastbound right lane as the sources of the traffic. 
The right lane had to accommodate both cars trying to get onto the LIE from the Sagtikos Parkway at Exit 53 and those trying to get out at Exit 54. With cars both entering and exiting the LIE in the same lane, the rush-hour congestion led to some necessary changes. 
Exit 54 was closed in 1990. Exit 53 became the replacement exit for 54, with service roads added to bring commuters to Wicks Road. 
So chalk up this little Long Island mystery to unexecuted plans and the Long Islander’s worst enemy: traffic.

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Why isn't there an Exit 47 on the Long Island Expressway?

Why isn't there an Exit 47 on the LIE?

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<h4>Where did the name Gilgo come from? Folklore says there was a successful clammer named Gill. — asked by reader Kim Murphy, Oak Beach</h4> 
If you’re looking for a good catch in the water around the Town of Babylon, you go where “Gill goes.” Or, at least, that’s the local legend about how the Gilgo community was named — after a fisherman named Gill. 
But if the legend is true, there’s no record of it among local historians and officials at the state’s Office of Parks, Recreation and Historic Preservation. Nor is there any record of the name’s provenance. 
The earliest mention of Gilgo in town records is in a 1793 deposition which references a “Gilgo gut,” said Babylon Town historian Mary Cascone. Before that, Gilgo Gut was called Huntington West Gut, according to an 1808 deposition. There is no mention of why the name was changed. 
Still, some locals subscribe to the tale, and it’s been spread online through local publications. It was even referenced in a 2013 New York Rising document, which says a “famous” Gill Burch lived on the mainland after the Civil War. 
A 1960 article in the defunct publication the Long Island Forum supports the Gill Burch legend. According to a story listing the origins of several place names across Long Island, the legendary fisherman Gill Burch belonged to family that “lived on the mainland south of Gilgo Inlet.” 
But a Suffolk County News article from 1959 offers a slightly different version of the tale — that the Gill in question was either a Burch, Smith or Verity. So, we went looking for all three, and local genealogists did come up with a handful of men that fit the bill. 
Genealogist Mac Titmus found three Gill Burches and a Virgil. There was a Gilson Burch born in Farmingdale in 1817; a Gilson Charles Burch born in Brooklyn in 1889; a Gilbert Burch born in 1840 in Huntington; and a Virgil Leon Burch born in Amityville in 1888. 
But, all of those Gills were born too late to be the inspiration for the hamlet’s name. 
Genealogist Linda Metzger uncovered another person of interest — a Gill Smith who was born in Huntington about 1765, though she couldn’t determine from historical records if Smith was a fisherman by trade. 
And that was the end of the information trail, and with not quite enough to prove this tale true or untrue, the local legend remains just that.

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Where did the name Gilgo come from?

LIGILGWEB_WEB

Craig Schneider

<h4>The New York Yankees pitching coach does not wear the team jersey during games. Why not? — asked by Peter Williams, of Sayville</h4>
The short answer: He prefers a more comfortable top, with pockets, according to a team spokesman. And, he does wear the team pants.
The long answer: Watching the Yankees last season, longtime fan Peter Williams spotted something that seemed, well, off base. Game after game, pitching coach Larry Rothschild did not wear the team jersey and it got under Williams’ skin. After all, he thought all coaches and players wear the team uniform.
“How come this guy’s not wearing a jersey?” said Williams, 48, of Sayville. He’s been watching the team since he was about 10, when the Yanks beat the Dodgers in six games in the 1977-78 World Series. “The Yankees are sticklers for guys not having beards. I would think that attention to detail would apply.” 
Eventually he sent his question to Newsday.
Michael Margolis, the Yankees director of baseball information and public communications, opted to answer for Rothschild. 
“Aside from a pullover or sweatshirt being more comfortable than a jersey, Larry prefers to have the utility of a top that has pockets (to hold his pen, pitch counter, clicker, glasses, notes, etc.),” Margolis wrote in an email. “That’s it.”
Full disclosure: Rothschild does wear the official team pants during games, and the pullovers and windbreakers he dons have the official Yankees logo. Furthermore, it’s not an anomaly. Other coaches have shunned the team jersey, too, Margolis notes.
“It’s actually not an uncommon practice in Major League Baseball for coaches and some managers to not wear jerseys, so it’s not really a break with tradition at this point,” he said.
Others disagree, but more on that in a moment.
The custom has been challenged before.
The late comedian George Carlin explored this.
“Only in baseball does the manager or coach wear the same clothing the players do,” Carlin said. “If you’d ever seen [former football coach] John Madden in his Oakland Raiders uniform, you’d know the reason for this custom.”
Mike Royko, the late Chicago Tribune columnist, also addressed this in a 1989 column. Actually, his wife did.
“It’s stupid,” his wife said. “How would basketball coaches look in little shorts. . . . In every other sport, the manager dresses like a grown-up. So why do baseball managers have to wear the same uniform that Little League kids wear?”
Sean Holtz, head of Baseball Almanac Inc., an online baseball encyclopedia, pointed to a 1957 rule that requires the coaches to be in uniform. He said it is still rare to see someone out of uniform, “however, it has since been interpreted to mean the first and third base coaches specifically, the coaches who need to be on the field.”
He offered a history lesson.
The tradition of managers and coaches wearing uniforms began in the 19th century, at the birth of baseball, he noted. 
At that time, the decisions on the field were made by the player deemed the “team captain.” Because he also played in the game, he wore a uniform.
Through the years, the tradition remained in that the people calling the shots on the field — now the coaches and manager — continue to wear a uniform, Holtz said.
Cassidy Lent, a reference librarian at the Baseball Hall of Fame, largely agreed. She said the 2017 Major League Baseball rule book still specifies that players and coaches on the field must be in uniform. 
The issue reached a fever pitch during a 2007 brouhaha at Yankee Stadium involving Red Sox manager Terry Francona’s choice of attire, an incident the manager himself referred to as “shirtgate.” 
Francona was wearing a pullover when a police lieutenant from NYPD, authorized by MLB, approached him during a game to make certain Francona was wearing his uniform jersey beneath the fleece pullover.
Francona cried foul, and a MLB official later acknowledged it was a mistake to approach the manager during the game. 
Given all that explanation, Williams still could not wrap his head around Rothschild’s choice.
To the Sayville fan, it’s an old tradition, and “What team has more tradition than the Yankees?” he said.

Sports

Baseball

New York Yankees

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Why doesn’t the Yankees pitching coach wear the team jersey?

Why doesn’t this Yankees coach wear the jersey?

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The short answer: It’s in Ronkonkoma – or Farmingville. It depends on what you mean when you say “Long Island,” which is another burning question altogether. 
The long answer: The Island is about 118 miles from New York Harbor to Montauk Point and 23 miles at its widest distance from north to south. 
To calculate the center, cartographers use an application called a geographic information system. Newsday asked a Long Island-based group of GIS professionals to hunt down the exact center of the Island. They came back with a map that drops a pin on an apartment complex in Ronkonkoma – Nob Hill Condominiums at 47 Richmond Blvd., about a mile west of Lake Ronkonkoma. 
“A lot of the residents love it here 'cause it’s in a central location – between the LIE and the railroads,” said Valerie Consoli, the office manager for the condominiums. “It’s convenient, but who knew it was right in the middle?” 
<a href="https://www.newsday.com/long-island/why-aren-t-brooklyn-and-queens-part-of-long-island-1.13633007">But are Brooklyn and Queens really part of Long Island?</a> Geographically, yes. But in our hearts and minds? Well, we didn’t think of it that way. Initially, we asked the good people at Long Island GIS to find the middle of Long Island, excluding the New York City boroughs. (We updated this article, originally published in May 2016, based on multiple requests from readers who wanted the geographic center.) 
For the 2010 Census, Suffolk County created a GIS map of Long Island showing the middle of Nassau and Suffolk counties to be in Farmingville. 
We asked Long Island GIS to be more specific. The model spit out a map with a pin dropped just south of Ridgewood Avenue, north of Sycamore Avenue and east of Blue Point Road. 
That was the best GIS could do, but when shown the map, Keith Falkowski, who lives on the north side of Ridgewood Avenue, was convinced he could identify the exact lot. 
Falkowski, 48, walked across the street and banged on his neighbor’s door. 
“You always thought you were the center of the world,” Falkowski said excitedly to Ralph Swanson as he opened the door. “Well it turns out you’re the center of the Island.” 
Ralph and Jane Swanson’s “little piece of heaven” sits on about three-quarters of an acre with a steep driveway and a lush backyard with a shed, fire pit and a strip of manicured lawn where Ralph practices his putting. 
Though the couple have&nbsp;lived there for nearly 37 years and are natives of nearby Lake Ronkonkoma, the news that they could be sitting on the middle -- or very nearly the middle -- of Nassau and Suffolk counties came “as a very big surprise,” Jane said. 
“It’s just not something I’ve ever thought about -- our little palace,” she said. &nbsp;

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Where is the exact center of Long Island?

Where is the center of Long Island?

center of li

<h4>Whatever happened to Lollipop Farm? --asked by reader Judi Ross, of Jericho</h4>
The short answer: The popular Syosset animal attraction closed in 1967 when its owners retired, but you can still find its signature train at special events.
The long answer: Visit the intersection of Jericho Turnpike and Jackson Avenue in Syosset and you’ll find places to buy shoes, get takeout or drop off your dry cleaning.
What is a series of strip malls today used to be something much grander, a candy-colored paradise for children known as Lollipop Farm.
From 1950 to 1967, the Sweeny family owned and operated a children’s zoo — and owner Harry Sweeny insisted it be called a zoo — that drew crowds to pet lambs, feed ducks or ride the signature attraction, a small gasoline-powered train that wound through the property.
“It had a little train and it had lollipops stuck in the ground,” said Judi Ross, a Jericho resident who went with her family as a little girl in the 1950s.
Business was so good after opening, Sweeny raised admission prices to 30 cents for everyone older than 18 months, and popcorn to feed the animals was a few cents extra, Billboard Magazine reported in 1954. By one count, the farm had as many as 300 animals that required care and thousands of guests per day.
So what happened?
In 1967, after nearly two decades of running the farm, Harry and his wife Alice found new homes for their animals. They sold the property and relocated to Pennsylvania.
“After a while, I think they got tired,” said Eva Sweeny Mancuso, the couple’s daughter. “It had been a wonderful 15 years.”
Despite its abrupt closure, the farm still holds positive memories for the Sweeny family. 
Mancuso, 74, of Hico, Texas, said her father got the idea in 1950, after he designed a children’s zoo for the Bronx Zoo. Both of her parents loved children, she said, and saw an opportunity to create a zoo on Long Island.
“One day, I was passing by and saw this fellow posting a sign on this property,” Sweeny told Billboard. “I bought it and here we are.”
They painted the farm’s steepled ice house with bright colors, then set about filling the zoo with creatures great and small, from ducklings and lambs to ponies and exotic birds.
Mancuso said she always loved working with the animals. She was 6 when the farm opened and spent every day there with her sister Jane, 10, and later recruited her friends to work there in high school.
It made her a lifelong lover of animals, she said. While she has fond memories of the animals, she’s never wanted to open a similar park herself. She now owns four horses on a ranch in Hico, though sometimes she wishes she had a few more animals like Lollipop Farm had.
“It’s not really a menagerie of animals anymore and I miss that,” she said.
Not all of Lollipop Farm is lost. For those who want to experience old memories, the Greenlawn-Centerport Historical Association acquired and refurbished the train about five years ago, said Tony Guarnaschelli, association treasurer.
The train was refurbished and installed on a new track at the John Gardiner Farm in Greenlawn, and Guarnaschelli said the train runs regularly during the summer and during special events, like its annual Pickle Festival, which attracts hundreds of riders each year.
“You gotta see the faces on these kids,” Guarnaschelli said. “We have grandparents who come and bring the grandkids and they’ll say ‘I rode this when I was little.’”

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What happened to Syosset’s Lollipop Farm?

Whatever happened to Long Island's Lollipop Farm?

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<h4>Why can’t you pump your own gas in Huntington?</h4>
The short answer: The ban on pumping your own gas — the only such law on the books in New York State — was put in place as a safety concern, but that’s about all anyone has to say about it.
The long answer: If you’ve ever stopped at a Huntington gas station, you know the deal — every station is full service.
Despite several instances of contention, pumping gas on your own has been illegal in the Town of Huntington since the 1980s. No other town in New York State prohibits self-service, according to the Gasoline and Automotive Service Dealers Association. Around the country, only New Jersey still has a complete self-service prohibition.
It begs the question: Why is there a ban?
“What happened was it was first enacted decades ago when the fire department came to the town,” said A.J. Carter, Huntington’s public information officer. “They were concerned that improper use of the pumps could create a fire hazard.”
So the ban is in place for safety. But that raises a second question: Why does Huntington consider self-service gas stations a safety hazard when other Long Island towns do not?
Neither officials in town hall nor the fire marshal provided any additional information on the reasoning behind the ban, so the details of the decision remain unclear.
Ralph Bombardiere, executive director of the Service Dealers Association, which represents the interests of automotive service stations in the metropolitan area, said that he had appealed to the town to lift the ban about five times in the 1980s and 1990s.
Bombardiere said self-service is advantageous for three reasons: It can reduce costs for station owners, lower gas prices and ensure employee safety.
“Gas stations are exposed, 24-hour operations,” Bombardiere said. “When one worker is outside the station, they are subject to crime.”
New Jersey, which implemented its self-service ban in 1949, shared the Huntington Fire Department’s sentiment that full service would ensure customer safety. And just as Bombardiere’s organization did in Huntington, the New Jersey Gasoline Retailers Association fought against the law.
“Somebody get me all of the people that have started fires and burned down gas stations in those 40 years,” Sal Risalvato, the association’s executive director, said of the time leading up to the New Jersey ban. “It just doesn’t happen.”
Risalvato, who owned an Exxon station for 23 years, said that he has protested the law since the late 1970s. Like Bombardiere, he said that lifting the ban would reduce costs, prices and danger for workers. But just as in Huntington, his efforts have not gained any traction.
“Lawmakers are reluctant to talk about self-service because there’s this culture in New Jersey, literally a culture, with T-shirts saying ‘Jersey Girls Don’t Pump Gas,’ ” Risalvato said. “New Jerseyans wear it like a badge of honor that they don’t pump their own gas.”
 Efforts to reverse the law in Huntington have died down.
“It was such a brick wall that it just didn’t pay to go back,” Bombardiere said. “Gas stations have learned to live with it.”

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Why can’t you pump your own gas in Huntington?

Why can’t you pump your own gas in this LI town?

gashuntington

Alfonso A. Castillo

<h4>Why are late LIRR trains still considered to be on time?</h4>
The short answer: The railroad defines “on time” differently than you might expect.
The long answer: If you’ve ever wondered how the Long Island Rail Road can consistently claim that more than 90 percent of its trains are on time, when yours never seems to be, it may be because of how the railroad defines “on time.”
The LIRR only considers a train late if it arrives more than 5 minutes and 59 seconds after its scheduled time at its destination. So a train can be late at nearly every station, and still be considered on time, depending on when it pulls into its final stop.

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Why are some late LIRR trains still considered ‘on time’?

Why are some late LIRR trains still ‘on time’?

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&nbsp; 
<h3>How would Long Island be evacuated in an emergency?</h3> 
The short answer: There is no formal plan. Officials have ideas and tactics that work on a smaller scale, but it is logistically complicated. 
The long answer: Between traffic on the Long Island Expressway, bridge construction and signal troubles on the Long Island Rail Road, there’s no shortage of headache-inducing obstacles in trying to get off the Island. 
But what if there were an emergency requiring evacuation? 
As it turns out, evacuation tactics are pretty standard no matter where you are, said Craig Craft, commissioner of Nassau County’s Office of Emergency Management. And the tactics deployed are going to depend on the emergency. 
“We’d have to pull the plug and make that decision days in advance,” he said. 
Contraflow, the practice of shifting highways so all lanes move in the same direction would be a good option for an event such as superstorm Sandy, he said. 
Another option, though not very efficient, would be to use ferries to move people across the Long Island Sound. 
But even a storm like Sandy wasn’t enough to require evacuating the whole Island. 
“What would be a reason that we would consider an evacuation of that magnitude? Maybe a Category 5 hurricane?” Craft said. “I could see us moving people to the center of the Island and taking over a lot of areas in the center as shelters.” 
In the event of a terror attack or catastrophe that affects power or air quality, Craft said, officials would tell the public to shelter in place. 
Part of the difficulty in coming up with a comprehensive evacuation plan is dealing with the size of the local population, officials said. 
Long Island boasts about 3 million residents across Nassau and Suffolk counties, according to U.S. Census records. However, any event that requires an evacuation of Long Island would also likely affect New York City and its dense boroughs, which 8.5 million people call home. 
So to move more than 11 million people, it would have to be a true emergency with lots of coordination, Craft said, and that definition is hard to pin down. 
Fears about a lack of an evacuation plan helped doom the roughly $6 billion Shoreham Nuclear Power Plant, which was officially decommissioned in 1994 after two decades of controversy over its safety. 
In 1983, the Suffolk County Legislature determined the county could not safely and effectively evacuate its residents in the event of a nuclear disaster, marking the project’s decline. 
Of course, people can always choose to self-evacuate. For some, a transportation breakdown could be enough to leave, said Chris Dowhie, owner of Plan B Marine. Plan B allows wealthy clients in Manhattan to purchase a very specific type of insurance policy — access to quick, safe water transport to the mainland. 
Clients pay as much as $750 a month per person to have a private escape boat available. Plan B staff have trained clients on how to use the twin-engine, military-grade boats for the three-minute ride to New Jersey from Manhattan’s West Side and Dowhie said clients include diplomats, investment advisers and college students with concerned parents. 
“Mass transit, power failure, any kind of event that’s going to delay you more than three, four hours from your commute,” Dowhie said. “It doesn’t have to be a 911 scenario or zombie apocalypse, it could be a generic inconvenience.” 
The bottom line is that while you may want to leave Manhattan or Long Island, there’s little chance everyone will be asked to. 
“There’s a lot of options out there, but the likelihood of doing an island evacuation is very slim,” Craft said.

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How would Long Island be evacuated in an emergency?

How would LI be evacuated in an emergency?

evacuation illustration

Why are Brooklyn and Queens a part of New York City even though they are physically on Long Island? 
The short answer: As the City of New York sought to expand its boundaries, it enticed the residents of Brooklyn and Queens with the promise of improved services. 
The long answer: Until the 1890s, Manhattan and New York City were just two names for one place. There were no other boroughs. Instead, New York City was surrounded by separate municipalities: Staten Island, the City of Brooklyn, Queens County, and East Bronx. 
In the lead up to the 20th century, the city decided to expand. 
Chicago had been annexing territory since 1851, and the benefits were obvious: A larger municipality could provide more services, like the construction of schools. Current and former city officials, namely former comptroller Andrew H. Green, decided it was time to stop playing second fiddle to the Windy City. 
The Greater New York Commission was formed, with Green as its president. In 1894, the commission announced a referendum would be held in Manhattan, the Bronx, Staten Island, Brooklyn and the western portion of Queens County to decide the city’s future. It was up to the people. 
The New York Times made its predictions: At least four would vote in favor of consolidation. Brooklyn was uncertain, as it was already the third-largest city in the United States. 
Hundreds of thousands turned out for the referendum. Between all five boroughs, 176,170 voted in favor, and 131,706 dissented, according to city data. In Brooklyn, the consolidation passed by only 300 votes. 
“As much as they didn’t like being little sister to Manhattan, they benefitted from it,” New York City historian Kenneth T. Jackson said of Brooklyn. 
By combining into one, New York City would have more tax money to go around to build better roads and other infrastructure, Jackson said. 
But on Jan. 1, 1898, when the present-day New York City was officially formed, there was a problem on Long Island. The referendum did not include the eastern portion of Queens County — the towns of Hempstead, North Hempstead and Oyster Bay. So who would govern them? 
“It was an impossible situation,” said Queens historian Jeffrey Kroessler. 
The towns were deliberately excluded, Kroessler said, because the eastern side of Queens County was mostly farmland. 
“The City of New York is looking at that saying there’s no one living out there,” Kroessler said, “and we’ll be responsible for buildings schools, roads, sewage. So they kept it out.” 
As soon as the present-day New York City was established, the local leaders in the three towns began working on legislation to create a new county. The measure was passed in Albany immediately. 
On January 1, 1899, Nassau County was born. 
Source: NYC.gov

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Why aren’t Brooklyn and Queens part of Long Island?

Why aren’t Brooklyn and Queens part of LI?

queens

<h4>Why don’t most Long Islanders know about San Remo? “Growing up in Queens in the mid-60s, I remember bungalows and clamming, and these days when I recall to others, they always say, ‘Never heard of it!’ ”</h4>
Short answer: It seems that the question is not really why many Long Islanders today have never heard of San Remo, but why so many New Yorkers from the 1920s to the 1960s had. The answer to that question is: advertising. 
Long answer: Way north of East Main Street in Kings Park is a hilly, woodsy residential neighborhood bordered by the Nissequogue River. Most Long Islanders looking at a map would call it Kings Park, but inside this neighborhood, residents have a different name: San Remo.
San Remo began as a summer retreat in the 1920s. Like the Hamptons and the Gold Coast, its visitors came from New York City. It was founded by Generoso Pope, the publisher of the Italian newspaper Il Corrierre — later called Il Progresso — who partnered with a developer to offer a deal: buy a 20-by-100-foot plot of land for $250, get a free subscription. The more subscriptions, the more Il Corrierre could make in advertising revenue.
Mindful of his readership’s heritage, and noticing the area’s resemblance to the Italian Riviera, Pope named the new neighborhood after Italy’s San Remo.
Italian immigrants would take the train or travel by private boat for weekends, summers and holidays, and set up a tent on their $250 lot. Families would catch fish from the Nissequogue River for dinner and eat among the apple trees under the moonlight, Roy Conforte, a longtime resident and the neighborhood’s unofficial historian, said.
“It’s our own acre of heaven,” said Conforte, 75, who spent his first summer in San Remo in 1946. 
Conforte grew up in Brooklyn and spent almost every summer in San Remo. At the time, many San Remo residents were enjoying post-World War II economic prosperity, so the tents of the 20s were replaced by bungalows, he said.
In the early 1960s, most summer residents built new houses and expanded their bungalows. Conforte, an engineer and construction worker by trade, built his house with the help of his childhood friends in 1973.
“San Remo is all family and friends,” Conforte said. “We grew up as kids and became adults together.”
The population of San Remo leveled off to about 3,500 after the building boom, he said. The families that had once flocked to the area to vacation were now living there year-round. 
Five decades after Il Progresso first advertised San Remo, it had matured from its resort beginnings. The community never again received that level of press or name recognition. 
The last time San Remo was prominently featured in the newspapers was in 1988, when the San Remo Elementary School closed. In 1989, The New York Times made a small mention of San Remo — as a middle-income “suburb” of Kings Park — in a real estate article.
There is also little changeover among San Remo homeowners, according to real estate agent Stephanie Hagstrom, who has lived in San Remo for 51 years.
When she does sell homes in San Remo, Hagstrom said most prospective buyers haven’t heard of it — unless they are Kings Park or San Remo natives.
Joe Tekverk, a second generation San Remo resident, said that the dynamic of San Remo has not changed. Sure, the houses have electricity, but the beach is still busy in the summers, just as it was 90 years ago.
“San Remo is like the best kept secret on Long Island,” Tekverk said.

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Why don’t most Long Islanders know about San Remo?

LIREMO0513_WEB

<h4>Are there any original Levitt houses left in Levittown?</h4>
Short answer: Probably not.
Long answer: The homes have all been altered, expanded or rebuilt since the first house went up 70 years ago, according to the Levittown Historical Society.
Levittown began as the first modern suburb in the United States. The building company Levitt and Sons, led by William Levitt, bought land on Long Island and constructed more than 17,000 homes in 1947. The houses, despite coming in three Cape Cod models with five variations, looked almost exactly the same. 
The original, mass produced houses were one story tall. They had four and a half rooms, two of which were bedrooms. They had driveways, but no garages or fences. Shingles covered the outer walls. For a little variety, the houses were painted all different colors, including yellow, red and blue.
Bob Koenig, vice president of the Levittown Historical Society, said many of the houses were altered to match the needs of growing families and replace deterioration.
“There’s a couple of houses that come very close, but I really don’t think that there’s any that would’ve been sustained, especially since we’re talking about 70 years,” he said.
The Weber House, built in 1947, is the main example. It’s an official Hempstead landmark, designated in 1995 by the town. It has one notable exterior alteration — the siding was changed from shingles to aluminum, because the original red-colored shingles had turned black. It also has a fence between the front and backyards, but it doesn’t have a garage and is still one story tall.
“As far as today goes, that’s as far as you’re going to get,” Koenig said.

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Are there any original Levitt houses left in Levittown?

Are there any original Levitt houses left?

levittown

<h4>How did Lynbrook get its name?</h4>
The short answer: We get a lot of questions about how various Long Island communities were named. Of course they all have their own stories, and they are often related to the person who founded the area, to communities in England, and to Native American roots. 
The story of Lynbrook stood out for going through 10 names. Its many different identities took inspiration from Native American tribes, from people who lived in the area and from New York City.
The long answer: It took 251 years and 10 names before anyone ever heard of the Village of Lynbrook.
Rechqua-Akie and Rokawanhaka were the first names in its recorded history. Both are derived from the Delaware-Munsee language, according to Lynbrook historian Art Mattson’s book, “The History of Lynbrook.” Rechqua-Akie means “A Sandy Place,” in reference to Long Island’s soil. Rokawanhaka means “Our Place of Laughing Waters,” a specific reference to the Mill River.
The very first name changes began in 1643, when the English settled in the area. They purchased the land from the Native Americans, naming it Rockaway, after the original name Rokawanhaka. Today, we call the entire area the Town of Hempstead.
As the colony’s population rose, the town began splitting into hamlets, and in 1670, Near Rockaway would be used to describe the present-day Lynbrook, Rockville Centre and East Rockaway area. “Near” referred to the hamlet’s proximity to town hall just north, in today’s Village of Hempstead.
Near Rockaway would last as a general term for the three hamlets for the next 200 years. Most of the colonists lived on the Mill River, naming their particular enclave “Clink-Town,” after one of the last Rockaway Native American chiefs.
“The Mill River banks are the birthplace of Rockville Centre and Lynbrook,” Mattson, 73, said.
Clink-Town split up in 1790 — those on the northeastern side would establish Rockville Centre. Those on the northwestern side began moving toward Merrick Road and Ocean Avenue intersection, where the Old Sand Hole Church was located just a quarter of a mile away. The church, the cultural center of the town, stood on the site of today’s Rockville Cemetery in Lynbrook. With a parsonage on the grounds, the new village became known as Parson’s Corners.
The village would go through four more name changes from 1853 to 1894 before it finally settled on Lynbrook. The first was Bloomfield, which appeared in newspapers and records for two years.
The reasoning behind Bloomfield is lost to history, Mattson said, “other than this was simply a field out here.”
But with the Village of Hempstead to the north and East Rockaway and Hewlett developing in the south, a man named Wright Pearsall saw a business opportunity in around 1830.
Pearsall bought 50 acres in the fields and at the intersection of Hempstead Avenue and Merrick Road, today’s Five Corners.
“It became a transportation hub,” Mattson said in an interview. “He built a general store, he encouraged others to come, and other businesses to come. Little by little, it became a town out of a blooming field.”
Bloomfield was renamed Pearsall’s Corners in 1855, and would later be simplified to Pearsallville and, later on, Pearsalls.
Are you keeping track? That’s nine names.
In 1867, the South Side Railroad opened a rail line that ran from New York City through southern Long Island, including a stop in Pearsalls — a line that would evolve into today’s Babylon branch of the LIRR.
With an easy commute to the city, Brooklyn residents began moving to Pearsalls, according to Mattson’s book.
There was just one problem: The newcomers didn’t like the town name.
A referendum was held on April 4, 1894, according to Mattson’s book. A month later, a new name appeared at the train station and in the U.S. Post Office’s records. It was the winner of the referendum, a name never before introduced in America.
It was Brooklyn transposed: Lynbrook.
Source: Art Mattson, author of “The History of Lynbrook”

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How did Lynbrook get its name?

Why did this LI village go through 10 names?

Lynbrook

<h3>Why do they call it the Hamptons?</h3> 
The short answer: We don't know exactly when or why people started referring to all the South Fork towns and hamlets by one name, but one thing we do know: people who live there don't call it the Hamptons. 
The long answer: Go out to a hamlet in the Hamptons, and year-round residents will not tell you they are from the Hamptons. They are from the Village of Sag Harbor, the hamlet of East Quogue, or maybe the hamlets of Bridgehampton, Amagansett or Springs. 
“Bridgehampton has its own history, East Hampton has its own history, Sag Harbor has its own history,” Hugh King, the East Hampton town crier and historic site director at Home Sweet Home Museum, said. “We are all different because our histories are different. Why not call it the Hamptons? We are not all the same.” 
Southampton and East Hampton were farming, fishing and whaling communities from the time they were founded in 1640 and 1648, respectively, until the late 1800s. The towns were settled by the British, who named the former after England’s city of Southampton. The names of the neighboring towns and villages centered around that. 
Everything changed with the Long Island Rail Road, which reached Bridgehampton in 1870 and Sag Harbor in 1872. It's not clear who first coined "The Hamptons" to describe each "hampton"-ending town. But as they became summer destinations, the tendency to group them together seems to have been born. 
In 1879, all the villages and hamlets within the towns of Southampton and East Hampton were considered one destination — the “Hamptons” — in William Mackay Laffan’s “The New Long Island: A Handbook of Summer Travel.” 
A few years later, The New York Times followed suit, calling the area “the Hamptons” in an 1882 article noting “the beauty of the country and scenery.” 
Attracted by the idea of paradise, popular culture has helped solidify the South Fork’s misidentification as one place. In shows like “Seinfeld” and “Sex and the City,” characters flocked to “the Hamptons,” with no distinction between East and South. 
However, it is possible that the tide is changing. In HBO’s “Girls,” a main character spends a weekend in Montauk. Showtime’s “The Affair” used Montauk as a specific location as well. And “Royal Pains,” a show about a doctor-for-hire in “the Hamptons,” makes specific references to the area’s hamlets and villages throughout its eight seasons. 
“The towns are referenced individually, and quite often,” said “Royal Pains” creator and executive producer Andrew Lenchewski. “For example, the main characters, Hank and Evan, live in the guesthouse of an estate in Sagaponack. That locale is meant to convey their especially blessed circumstances.” 
In the pilot, Lenchewski explained, a girl from the city refers to Westhampton as “Worsthampton.” 
“It’s a very specific world,” said Lenchewski, who also penned the pilot for drama “The Tap.” “That specificity is useful for both dramatic and comedic purposes.” 
Year-round residents couldn’t agree more: It’s a specific world.

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Why do people call it ‘the Hamptons’?

Stargazer

Stargazer / jcm

<h4>Why did North Hempstead split from Hempstead?</h4>
Short answer: They didn’t like each other, said North Hempstead Town historian Howard Kroplick. But then again, the American colonies were embroiled in the Revolutionary War, triggering a divide between the two areas. 
Long answer: On occasions when Kroplick receives inquiries about Hempstead, he has to remind callers of their mistake: He is the North Hempstead Town historian, and Hempstead and North Hempstead are not the same. 
But, he will tell you, they weren’t always separate.
Hempstead and North Hempstead have been two different towns for 233 years, nearly the age of the United States itself. This is no coincidence — the American Revolution was the reason for the split.
“Basically we didn’t like each other,” Kroplick, who wrote “Images of America: North Hempstead,” said of the separation. “The split really tells you about the big difference in opinions on Long Island.”
When the Revolutionary War broke out in April 1775, Hempstead’s residents had to choose a side: Patriot or Loyalist. The Dutch, who had settled in the northern portion of Hempstead, were Patriots. South Hempstead was mostly colonized by English Loyalists. Official allegiance was up to the Hempstead Town Board, which was dominated by the English Loyalists.
At a meeting that month, the town board announced Hempstead’s “true and faithful allegiance” to the English Crown.
The Dutch in the north were outraged.
On September 23, 10 months before the Declaration of Independence was signed, Hempstead’s Patriots drafted and signed a declaration of independence of their own — to break free from Hempstead. In their declaration, the Patriots wrote that because the Loyalists’ “general conduct is inimical to freedom . . . we shall consider ourselves as an entire, separate and independent beat or district.”
It took 9 years for the Hempstead Patriots to gain traction. When the Continental Army lost the Battle of Long Island in 1776, Hempstead was under British control.
“A lot of the Patriots had to go into hiding,” Kroplick said.
After the war, the young New York State Legislature obliged the Hempstead declaration of independence. In one of the state government’s first major acts, New York Governor and founding father George Clinton signed the Act to Divide Hempstead in 1784.
The portion of Hempstead “south of the country road that leads from Jamaica nearly through the Hempstead Plains,” the law said, would be called South Hempstead. The land to the north would become North Hempstead. Today’s Town of Hempstead dropped the “South” from its name in the 1800s. And the “country road” outlined in the law refers to today’s Old Country Road.
The Town of North Hempstead has not been able to find its declaration of independence, according to Kroplick. But the Act to Divide Hempstead is currently stored in the town’s archives.
Sources: “Images of America: North Hempstead,” the Town of Hempstead and the Town of North Hempstead

LISPLIT0513

Why did North Hempstead split from Hempstead? 

Why did this LI town declare its independence?

North Hempstead -- cropped

Editor’s note: This article is part of a series in which Newsday attempts to answer questions from Long Islanders about life on the Island. If there’s a question you want us to answer, send it to us <a href="https://newsday.wufoo.com/forms/x11u0lbu08gr9sk/" target="_blank">here</a>. This article was originally published Sept. 8, 2013, and has been repackaged for this series. 
<h3>Who built Tiny Town?</h3> 
Short answer: The North Merrick neighborhood, known as Campgrounds or Tiny Town, arose from Methodist summer revival camp meetings held by the Long Island Camp Meeting Association beginning in 1869. 
Long answer: While taking a drive in North Merrick to soothe her infant daughter to sleep 26 years ago, Denise Desanto found herself lost in a series of narrow circular roads that hug small cottages, some no more than 12 feet wide. 
Desanto, 50, found herself returning to the area and falling in love with it. She told her husband, Robert, that she wanted to move there. 
When a cape house on Wesley Avenue was advertised in 1997, Desanto called and negotiated a price the same day. 
Desanto says the neighborhood is like one big family, which in part is thanks to the proximity of the homes. 
“I can walk to the corner of my backyard and see all of the other yards,” said Desanto. “My home is one of 10 that have yards that go into the center like a pizza pie.” As a result, everyone knows everyone. “We are all great friends,” she said. “It’s just so special here.” 
The neighborhood, known as Campgrounds or Tiny Town, arose from Methodist summer revival camp meetings held by the Long Island Camp Meeting Association beginning in 1869. 
Larry Garfinkel, president of the Historical Society of the Merricks, says the 60-acre location for the campsite was purchased by the Methodist Church due to its accessibility from the city by way of a stop on the Southside Railroad, a competitor of the Long Island Rail Road that later merged with the LIRR. 
“There was a large population of Methodists in Brooklyn and Queens, but not a lot of land there,” said Garfinkel, 81. “They had other locations in New York, but they needed something in the suburbs for the people from the city.” 
During the first summers, the campground consisted of the tabernacle in the open field in the center encircled by two rows where tents were pitched and carriages parked for 10 days of services. In 1870, cottages were built around the tents set up around the Campgrounds’ layout. 
There were 12 cottages by 1873 and 60 by 1900, Garfinkel said. The cottages, which would rent from $30 to $50 a summer, became year-round homes after the meetings were discontinued in the early 1900s due to declining interest. But the meetings “helped put Merrick on the map,” he said. 
About 20 of the original Tiny Town homes remain, but with varying degrees of remodeling. Only two houses are recognized as historical landmarks by the Town of Hempstead. One is the former chapel on Peck Avenue. The other is the Wesley Avenue Victorian-style home owned by Janet and Henry Kessin. 
The Town of Hempstead recognizes the Kessins’ property as originally the minister’s home, but the couple says the two-story white house, built in 1870, may actually be the former charterhouse, based on the original deed they dug up while applying for town landmark status. 
The house, which has its original wood siding, has had two additions: a kitchen built in 1887 and two upstairs bedrooms that the Kessins added in 1987. 
Henry Kessin, 64, said he and Janet applied for landmark status to keep its historical character. Many of his neighbors, however, won’t follow suit because of remodeling restrictions that come with historical status. As a result, the Campgrounds is far different from the one the Kessins were first drawn to 31 years ago. 
“With the price of housing going up, people tore down the cottages to put up your typical suburban home,” said Henry Kessin. “The flavor of the neighborhood changed from a unique neighborhood to a more common one.” 
The couple said the area has lost many of its old oak trees that lined the neighborhood streets when the town expanded and modernized the narrow roads that weave throughout the campgrounds. 
Desanto, who lives on a lot that was vacant prior to the post-war building boom, said one neighbor petitioned around five years ago to declare the entire Campgrounds a historic site, but some residents resisted and it never happened. 
Desanto says the town could find other ways to celebrate the area’s historical importance, such as erecting a welcome sign or installing new street lamps that fit the style of the neighborhood. 
“It’s kind of forgotten in that respect,” she said. &nbsp;

tinytown

Who built Tiny Town?

Who built Long Island's Tiny Town?

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