A Blog of Personal Thoughts

Weekends at Premium Point

July 2025

Elizabeth and I attended Friends Seminary together. She, kindergarten through high school graduation, I second grade and high school. We lived across the street from one another in Greenwich Village, she at 1 Fifth Avenue, a hotel her father owned, I at 2 Fifth Avenue. My family and I lived there for four years and then moved across the street to 4 Washington Mews. Elizabeth’s Fifth Avenue apartment connected to her house at 64 Washington Mews. I could see her bedroom window from our living room.

Some weekends and some summer holidays I’d go to her place at Premium Point, a gated community on Long Island Sound in New Rochelle. The house had a swimming pool even though it was right on the water. I went there when her parents first bought the house. It was filled with Oriental carpets of the finest quality. I wondered why the previous owners left them there. Liz’s mother planned to either sell them all or have a local thrift store come get them. She replaced them with white wall-to-wall white carpet. Her choice.

Liz’s bedroom was pink and white. One summer I spent a week there. We swam and lollygagged around the pool every day. What I remember the strongest though, is reading Brothers Karamazov. I was fascinated by the brother who had epilepsy. I loved the book for that reason. On that trip or another, I remember needing to lie down on my bed for a long nap because I floated around the room and felt a very strong natural high. On different trips, this happened several times in her room and at the pond. I enjoyed the sensation, but it was clear and strong enough to exhaust me, to make me sleep for an afternoon. I didn’t know till decades later that these events were epilepsy episodes. One time, when there were other classmates there, I became so dizzy at the pool that I vomited. I staggered slightly as I went upstairs to take a nap. I think Liz must have gone up with me.

I sat in the bedroom overlooking Long Island Sound, reading Dostoevsky’s Brothers Karamazov. I immersed myself in the conflict he presented between reason and spirituality. Seven years later, I would reject Philippe, who was a perfect combination of reason and emotion. I was not mature enough, not sorted out myself to accept such a partner. I did not understand what he offered me.

Perhaps I knew Dostoevsky had epilepsy, but I didn’t know I did. Still, I identified strongly with him. There was that feeling of connection to him as I curled next to this author to read his book. Spending time at Elizabeth’s country home allowed me to not have any of the obligations or expectations of my own home. We stayed away from her parents except for meals. We lounged by the pool, swam in it as we wished. We went to her room to read or talk the personal talks teenage girls have. When her father went to the city to work, we sat in his office and no one else came in. We walked the beach and rocks, almost getting stuck by a high tide. We knew what trouble we’d be in if we didn’t show up in the evening. We knew the fear we’d have as we waited in the dark for the tide to change, then wait for daylight to walk the rocks and beach back to her place. Instead, we climbed up the rocks, I think onto Jimmy or Tommy Dorsey’s property to keep from getting stuck on the rocks till the next low tide. Fortunately, whichever Dorsey it was, they were not there, nor were their house guards.

I floated as I read Dostoevsky. It was easy then to take a short or long nap that made the lightheadedness, illusions, and out of body feelings leave. It was not easy to feel that way by the pool. I still had to make my way upstairs to her room, out of sky and ocean spaciousness. Sometimes I felt nauseous. Once I vomited. We never told her mother. I walked slowly as Elizabeth helped my staggering body up the stairs. The journey took immense effort. I lay down to take a long nap.

She never asked why. She never asked if I were okay. She stayed a kind and considerate friend, a steadfast ally who never knew I floated away with Dostoevsky.