Just over two months ago, my wife, Christine, and I, along with our son, Matthew, bought a house in Amity Harbor, outside the village of Amityville. Our daughter, Elizabeth, is with us as well.
It isn’t a grand estate nor a landmark restoration — just a modest place tucked along Woods Creek, with sunlight spilling across its decks and quiet waters lapping nearby. Christine calls it her cottage. It’s ours. And though it’s smaller than the home we moved out of, its simplicity has given us something larger: time.
It begins with the southern exposure. Light streams in by mid-morning and lingers well past dinnertime. It fills the rooms with warmth and clarity, casting long shadows across the hardwood and igniting the water below with a golden shimmer. In a world that often feels rushed and overly complicated, that daily sun — steady, patient, ever returning — feels like a gift.
The front deck faces a canal; the back, the creek. From either side, there’s a steady procession of life: boats of all sizes moving gracefully past, the occasional hum of a personal watercraft, kayakers gliding by in near silence, dipping paddles into the water like metronomes keeping time.
There’s a rhythm to it all that you start to feel in your bones after a while — a kind of aquatic heartbeat that replaces the stress and rush of highways and crowded schedules.
That the house is smaller than what we were used to was intentional. Less to clean, less to maintain, less to distract us from what matters. It forces a kind of editorial process on daily life — what stays, what goes, what actually matters when the noise is stripped away. A book and a chair are enough. A turntable and a record collection feel like luxury. Conversations now stretch longer. Silence becomes something we’re comfortable sharing.
What’s more surprising than the house itself is what’s returned to fill the new space: reading, music and the soft, spontaneous conversations with my wife that I’d missed in the whirl of raising children, working long hours, commuting, living the busy life.
And now our children, grown into thoughtful, curious adults, come by to sit with us on the deck, feet up on the rail, drinks in hand. We talk about their lives, our memories, the people they know, things that matter. No television blaring, no hurried dinners. Just time — our most precious resource — finally being spent wisely.
The house sits at the end of a quiet street — an inlet that goes nowhere, which I hesitate to call a dead end. We need a better phrase for it. Maybe a “peaceful cul-de-sac” or a “welcoming finish.” It’s the kind of place where you can hear your own thoughts and, better still, hear someone else’s, shared without interruption.
In the mornings, the stillness is profound. In the evenings, it feels earned.
The beauty of Woods Creek isn’t just the water, the views or the boats drifting by. It’s what it draws out of you — the slowing down, the reconnecting and the rediscovering. I get to read and listen to music instead of just putting it on as background noise. And perhaps most important, I’m more present — truly present — with the people I love.
In the end, the house isn’t about escaping life, but about stepping into it more fully. It’s smaller, but it’s opened a larger world. Sometimes all it takes is some sun on your face, the sound of water nearby and the chance to listen — to the birds, to your children, to yourself.
Amityville may be known for other stories, but here on Woods Creek, we’re writing a quieter one — page by page, with gratitude and grace.
Jeff Bessen is the managing editor of Herald Community Newspapers.
