We're summering on the other side of the county. Many people, silently, wonder why. Aside from some obligations made long before we settled in Narrowsburg, the other side of the county holds us to her like a good friend. We summer in Monticello, as we have for 20 years. We live in a kind of commune, not political, definitely not religious. It is a communal life in the sense that we share the responsibilities and expenses of running 58 acres of land and a swimming pool.

We each have our little bungalows. I used to call ours a house, until we moved into a real house. They are in various states of repair. Some of our co-op members have moved into wealthier lives, to homes in Telluride and Montclair, NJ.

Some of us have re-populated the place with close friends from the city. When someone visits us here, we know instantly if they "get it." Some do, some don't. It has no effect on our friendship if they don't. We lovingly call the place Bungalow City International, an old joke that has lost its luster. Especially when I have to identify myself to the Trading Post or the Health Department as a member.

It used to be called Rolling Acres, a smoother moniker. Rolling Acres evokes its landscape, but not its funky character. We have never advertised for renters or buyers and no sign hangs outside the gate, hence the friendly aspect of our experience. I would mislead you, though, if I said 'twere always thus. There are conflicts, as in any family. There is not the emotional distance, in this kind of living that exists in a more traditional neighborly one.

For one thing, our children have grown up more as siblings to one another, than as neighbors. Even when they go back to the city, as most do, their friendships survive large age gaps. They do not travel together in a clique, but are always welcome at each other's homes and events. They have a bond borne of languorous summers at the pool, blueberry picking in the field, huge bonfires in the meadow and salamander hunting at the pond.

It makes it hard on us parents to leave. A family recently sold their place, after renting it for many years, to the renters. I am told there were tears at the closing, and I know why. They had made the mistake of coming up the day before, for one last look. Their son, Peter, now in his 20's, took the place in as if to capture all the memories at once.

There was a difference between his gaze and that of his girlfriend's. She saw the old trees, heavy with growth, and the rolling acres and new playground. He remembered the Labor Day pig roasts, when his father would cart up a whole pig in his Volvo, from the meat market on 14th Street. The men would take turns turning the beast on its spit inside an old refrigerator carcass. All night they would sit by the fire, drinking too heavily, telling tales. The next day splendor in the form of food appeared from every kitchen. Spaetzle from the Whitakers, with racks of fresh sausages of all varieties. Pies, potato salad, bread pudding, chutney. Home-brew from Fred and rice noodles from Agu. We ate all day as the children ran back and forth from the feast to their play; their miraculous imaginations fired up from the fuel of good food.

I often meet folks in the city who remember childhood in a Catskill's bungalow colony. Our city neighbor upstairs, now a Fire Islander, spent many July days at Camp Wel-Met, and August afternoons at his grandparent's bungalow on Dingle Daisy Road. His face, usually a stern city mask, lights up as he speaks of that time.

So while we love the river valley, crave the culture offered by the DVAA and the NIIFF and support the work of Sullivan First, we summer near Monticello, hidden away in the woods in the rolling acres of an old bungalow colony. This is not real estate, no matter what the casino proponents think. Some may think they will make a killing here one day. I doubt it. But if you're looking to make a life for your family, it can be a good bet.