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shops—in 1905. Apparently the structures interfered with his building plans. Thus, Lattingtown has no village center, which is why we go to neighboring Locust Valley for shopping, church, and all that. But as I said earlier, that was a time when American money was buying pieces of Europe or trying to replicate it here, and the little village of Lattingtown, a tiny hamlet of a hundred or so souls, could no more resist an offer of triple market value than could the English aristocrat who sold his library to adorn Alhambra.
    And perhaps what is happening now is further justice, or irony if you will, as land speculators, foreigners, and gangsters buy up the ruins and the near ruins from a partially bankrupt and heavily taxed American aristocracy. I never came from that kind of money, and so my feelings are somewhat ambivalent. I’m blue blood enough to be nostalgic about the past, without having the guilt that people like Susan have about coming from a family whose money was once used like a bulldozer, flattening everything and everybody who got in its way.
    Lester Remsen continued, “The builders are promising to save most of the specimen trees and dedicate ten acres as park if we’ll offer our expertise for free. Maybe you could meet with these people and tag the trees.”
    I nodded. I’m sort of the local tree guy around here. Actually, there are a group of us, who belong to the Long Island Horticultural Society. All of a sudden I’m in demand as local residents have discovered that raising the ecological banner can hold off the builders. Ironically, that’s one of the reasons that Stanhope’s two hundred acres can’t be sold, which is good for me but not for my father-in-law. That’s a messy situation, and I’m caught right in the middle of it. More about that later. I said to Lester, “I’ll get the volunteers out, and we’ll tag the rare trees with their names and so forth. How long before they break ground?”
    “About three weeks.”
    “I’ll do what I can.”
    It never ceases to amaze me that no matter how many million-dollar houses are built, there is an inexhaustible supply of buyers. Who are these people? And where do they get their money?
    Lester Remsen and I discussed the skeet-shooting problem. According to yesterday’s
Long Island Newsday
, a judge issued a temporary restraining order stopping the shoot, notwithstanding the fact that the shooting has been going on for more than half a century before the plaintiff bought his house or was even born. But I can see the other point of view. There is population pressure on the land, and there are noise and safety considerations to be taken into account. No one hunts deer or pheasant around here anymore, and the Meadowbrook Hunt Club, in its last days, had to plan a trickier route each year, lest the horses and hounds wind up charging through new suburban backyards or a shopping mall. Talk about terrorizing new residents.
    I know that we are fighting a rearguard action here to protect a way of life that should have ended twenty or thirty years ago. I understand this, and I’m not bitter. I’m just amazed that we’ve gotten away with it this long. In that respect I say God bless America, land of evolution and not revolution.
    Susan said, “Can’t you put silencers on the shotguns?”
    “Silencers are illegal,’’ I informed her.
    “Why?”
    “So gangsters can’t get ahold of them,’’ I explained, “and murder people quietly.”
    “Oh, I bet I know where you could get hold of a silencer.’’ She smiled mischievously.
    Lester Remsen looked at her.
    “Anyway,’’ I continued, “half the fun is the noise.”
    Lester Remsen agreed and asked Susan where in the world she could get a silencer.
    Susan glanced at me and saw this was not the time to bring up the subject. She said, “Just joking.”
    The club dining room was full for Sunday dinner. The clubs around here, you should understand, are the fortresses in the fight against the