WILLARD'S TAVERN

In the '50s the vacationing public only expected a clean, inexpensive room, a towel, a bar of soap, and indoor plumbing. And that is what we gave them.

GERALDINE MANZARE

I understand there were several taverns in the little fishing village that clung to the shores of Fort Pond Bay, Montauk, in the '30s. Then along came the 1938 hurricane and, finally, the United States Navy occupation during World War II, leaving only a memory.

One of those taverns was Willard's, in a building that was eventually relocated on a high bluff overlooking Fort Pond. The Navy used it as a dispensary during World War II, along with the Montauk Manor and several other buildings.

In the late '40s, a Miss Irene U. McGee bought it and rented rooms in the summer. Before that, she had run a boarding house for the workers at Camp Hero, in what is now Ruschmeyer's, across the pond.

In the early '50s Miss McGee sold the boarding house to us, and we continued to rent out rooms on weekends. She had inherited the Navy's old white iron bedsteads, and we put them to good use. There was a hot-water heater and an old wringer-type washing machine in the kitchen. The unheated house had all the amenities of what was then considered a summer cottage.

In the '50s the vacationing public expected only a clean, inexpensive room, a towel, a bar of soap, and indoor plumbing. And that is what we gave them!

We had only two concerns: that we didn't run out of clean linen, and that our water pressure would not fall off with a full house. The water pump had been installed when the house was relocated. It was a reliable old Dempster and they still had parts. We finally brought in town water, but sometimes, in the wee hours of the morning, I miss the sound of that old pump kicking in.

We knew the Montauk Manor formula for linens: one set on the bed, one in the closet, one in the laundry. We had two sets. One was on the bed and the other, dirty, set came home with us Sunday nights to New York and back again on Friday nights.

Our landscaping left much to be desired. We did manage to keep a path open to the house, until my husband found an old lawn mower at the dump. Now he has a Cub Cadet.

Our bluff was bare at the time except for bayberry, bittersweet, honeysuckle, primroses, and old grapevines. I bought some "sticks" at Woolworth's, advertised as forsythia, brought them home on the subway, and planted them around the bluff. Today they are as high as an elephant's eye.

We bought 12 black pine from Count Roman deMaditch, who lived on the Old Montauk Highway. Today they are higher than an elephant's eye.

We needed some fill for spots around the property. My dad made a sign and put it on the road: "Manzare Wants Clean Fill!" And that is what we got, in small piles or truckloads, from drivers who did not want to go to the dump. One load brought us the contents of an old outhouse, and we had a lovely crop of prime outhouse tomatoes.

Our sign stayed up long after we needed it. My husband was known as Clean Fill Manzare when he went to town. (It even followed us to Sag Harbor, where a passing truck driver once honked and yelled, "Hey, Clean Fill!")

Our guest house had many interesting visitors from New York City, the Bronx, and Brooklyn. We remember two girls from Brooklyn who came looking for action at the Montauk Manor in its heyday.

Dressed in their New York finery - black cocktail dresses with mink stoles - they may have got more action than they bargained for. They left early Sunday morning, telling us if any guy came by in a Cadillac to tell him they had left.

He did. We did.

In the early '60s, the motels had pretty well taken over, so we stopped renting rooms and began renting by the season instead. Montauk wasn't all about renting rooms in those days. There was, of course, fish, fishing, and fishermen. We would always put the fishermen in the room at the head of the stairs so they wouldn't wake the rest of the house when their alarms went off at 5 o'clock.

My husband, John, belonged to what was considered an elite fishing club of 12 devoted fishermen who came from all walks of life and called themselves the Sandpiper Sportsmen Group. Their one ambition: to catch those big striper lunkers passing off Montauk in the fall. Among them they had every rod, reel, and lure known to man.

They would breakfast at Boehler's, now John's Pancake House. If they were too tired to cook at night they would order pizza from Pizza Village. When not fishing they played cards, and always had plenty of schnapps, supplied by a member who was a division manager of Seagram's.

When laid out end to end in their sleeping bags in our 30-foot living room, they looked like mummies at the morgue. The house shook from the snores of these very tired fishermen. In October and November, with no heat, they called it Manzare's Ice House.

In pre-war days, Willard's probably didn't take in guests, but they did have dining and dancing. Our house has electrical outlets under every window, for small lamps over the tables. There is a square mark in the middle of the floor where a post used to stand. I sometimes imagine young couples dancing around that post.

I am sure Willard's had its share of Prohibition activities, especially on dark nights off the beach. One of our bedrooms has a small, built-in closet only 12 inches deep. If that closet could talk. . .

The only other building in Montauk we know of that was relocated is Trail's End. Both these solid structures have been through hurricanes and all kinds of weather over the years and have endured the test of time in a most salutary manner.

We are fortunate to have the old Willard's sign, now an integral part of the house, nailed under the basement stairs. It will remain there as long as the house stands.

Geraldine Manzare lives on Edgemere Road in Montauk.