It was a Saturday made for walking. So the wife selected the area off Thacher Road, alongside a story-high ridge of millions of pobbles down to the wooden bridge at Saratoga Creek, gateway to Long Beach. A short walk it is when you let horsepower take you most of the way from School Street in Rockport.
Beautifully colored rocks greeted us as we had hardly stepped from the car. Alongside were evidences of the winter's scrubbing of the shoreline in fragments of weather-beaten lobster pots, ideal for the fireplace, though financially rough to some poor lobsterman.
We came across a noisy brook that was actually running away from the sea instead of into it. For all we knew it may have been heading into town. One sure thing, that brook seemed to be in a big hurry.
The sky was of as much interest as was the shore. Over Gloucester, the sun splashed sheer white clouds, but over Rockport, grim blue-black clouds blotted the sky. Then it rained, lightly, in defiance to the sun. Here's where the wife and I were treated to one of the most glorious rainbows we have ever seen, here or in upstate Vermont. That bow, a perfect arch, with spectrum colors sharply defined, had the dour clouds for a backdrop. A stage director could have done no better.
Its beauty was completely lost on our scampering Molly, the boxer. Her sniffer was in extra high gear as she gunned down the length and breadth of the landscape and slithered along the top of the pobbles heap. Even the barking of fellow dogs in the distance failed to divert her attention from a newly discovered territority. She was the only member of the party to step foot onto Long Beach. The ocean was rushing too fast and deep into the vicinity of Saratoga's bridge to tempt us. For Molly, it was her first swim of the season, maybe a wee bit frigid, but that didn't disturb her.
We decided that if we stayed there too long the four-footer would be marooned, so it ws back-tracking for us to get her back onto dry land, on our side of the pond. Only others to enjoy the richness of the heavens and beach were a couple of young ladies in a Jersey red puddle-jumper who looked interested in the pobbles. But across the highway that was considered an expressway when it was built 40 years ago was the happy laughter of kiddoes.
Beneath the rainbow was the sprawling summer mansion once known as that of Judge Cotter, who, we were told, handled a noted case in maritime law involving a murder aboard ship.
Nearby was a 2 and 1/2 story dwelling characteristic of summer homes of the past, a modest but most liveable affair. Next door was a 20th century type ranch house, modern to the core. Such contrasts dot the Cape these days without clashing.
We trod the pobbles for a spell to catch the sea in April. The surf had calmed down to a ripple, the beach was deserted except for sweeps of gulls and small birds. Returning to the hot-topped road that leads from Thacher Road to the town parking lot, we noted there was no green yet in the marshes. But in those marshes were two spectacular birds that resembled a sort of duck, one with big black and white stripes. It could have been a stool pigeon.
Then to the car again to leave behind what to us is the greatest mass of mail boxes that we have ever met. They were for those who reside in Poole's Village. The walking trio enjoyed every minute of the hour with the pobbles. We will go there again.
J.P.C., Jr.
Monday, December 14, 2009
A Walk into 6,000 Years
It was a roundabout walk that the wife and I and our four-footer took last Sunday in Rockport. We ended up in the dim-dim past, muct too dim even for us. The day was perfect though gray overhead, not so good underfoot, as we headed in the buzz-wagon for the neighborhood of Thacher Road. There we walked where the wife has planned to go for a long time, into the new colony of homes.
Ridgewood Road, they called the first one leading off Thacher Road. The wife recalled that hardly more than a dozen years ago, the area was just plain unbroken woods. Before us were at least 20 bright looking homes with cars parked outside and many other signs of folks living there. Rockport has moved out in still another direction.
In the distance could be heard the dismal boom of the fog horn as if we didn't know that winter was still with us, what with the forever falling white flakes. Even the sheer white birches looked winterish amid a background of laurel.
For our lady boxer, it was a new world to conquer. My heart was in my mouth for fear we would meet up with all manner of wild-eyed canines resenting her intrusion into their province. I was walking as I thought on eggs but instead found it was just sheer thick mud.
As it happened only one woofer sounded off and the pride and joy of our family kept up her reputation of being a snob and paid not the slightest bit of attention. Apparently the homer was more than eager to share her realm with others, big or small for he (or was it she?) let it go with a bark.
The sight of lobster pots piled high in a yard gave us notice that this new colony was still Rockport at heart just as did the clear musical sound of a brook in the distance. This the wife recalled from a walk up through there 12 years ago with her den of Cub Scouts. Sure enough, going beyond the settlement, and down a yellow muddy slope we came upon the spirited tumbler on its way from Cape Pond to the ocean. Winter or no, that brook is still glorious to behold. It was worth the trouble. This was Rogers' Ramblers' terrain, and we could just picture him and his scrambling into it, over snow-spilled rocks and tripping vines. The wife remembered a quaint low wooden footbridge that once spanned this pond. It had probably gone the way of civilization. But no one is going to halt that brook, it would seem.
Scars of time were seen farther into these woods as we noted heaps of junked car bodies and also of gravel pits in the making. Ah me, progress is progress, we suppose, but we can take just so much before we choke up and would prefer reversing the picture.
At this point, the wife espied bright red checkerberries amid their green leaves, and promptly ate a berry much to the annoyance of her husband who never takes chances on woodland offerings, though the day may come when he will have to.
As for Molly, her nosy ferreting in the brush showed us where pussy willows had again come to life. That's a sign of something or other, but if it is of Spring then we know that in this Spring at least, all signs fail. However our 60-pounder wasn't concerned about human signs, for her concern in that excited pawing was without doubt a fox scent.
Once more we came onto Thacher Road, where the view of the ocean was fabulous, sparkled by a ridge of lobster pots along the edge of the beach. Continuing on, we came to the beach of Henry's Pond to see what the wife had viewed a few days earlier. It was the yellowed bole of a tree that had emerged from the sands at low tide these past few days and on which by laboratory tests, Harvard had stamped an age. That age was why the wife and I claim to have walked into 6,000 years. Scientists had said it was that old. But the tides were agin us and the sight denied us. It was a good walk just the same. And what does Molly care about the days before man walked in volume.
J.P.C., Jr.
Ridgewood Road, they called the first one leading off Thacher Road. The wife recalled that hardly more than a dozen years ago, the area was just plain unbroken woods. Before us were at least 20 bright looking homes with cars parked outside and many other signs of folks living there. Rockport has moved out in still another direction.
In the distance could be heard the dismal boom of the fog horn as if we didn't know that winter was still with us, what with the forever falling white flakes. Even the sheer white birches looked winterish amid a background of laurel.
For our lady boxer, it was a new world to conquer. My heart was in my mouth for fear we would meet up with all manner of wild-eyed canines resenting her intrusion into their province. I was walking as I thought on eggs but instead found it was just sheer thick mud.
As it happened only one woofer sounded off and the pride and joy of our family kept up her reputation of being a snob and paid not the slightest bit of attention. Apparently the homer was more than eager to share her realm with others, big or small for he (or was it she?) let it go with a bark.
The sight of lobster pots piled high in a yard gave us notice that this new colony was still Rockport at heart just as did the clear musical sound of a brook in the distance. This the wife recalled from a walk up through there 12 years ago with her den of Cub Scouts. Sure enough, going beyond the settlement, and down a yellow muddy slope we came upon the spirited tumbler on its way from Cape Pond to the ocean. Winter or no, that brook is still glorious to behold. It was worth the trouble. This was Rogers' Ramblers' terrain, and we could just picture him and his scrambling into it, over snow-spilled rocks and tripping vines. The wife remembered a quaint low wooden footbridge that once spanned this pond. It had probably gone the way of civilization. But no one is going to halt that brook, it would seem.
Scars of time were seen farther into these woods as we noted heaps of junked car bodies and also of gravel pits in the making. Ah me, progress is progress, we suppose, but we can take just so much before we choke up and would prefer reversing the picture.
At this point, the wife espied bright red checkerberries amid their green leaves, and promptly ate a berry much to the annoyance of her husband who never takes chances on woodland offerings, though the day may come when he will have to.
As for Molly, her nosy ferreting in the brush showed us where pussy willows had again come to life. That's a sign of something or other, but if it is of Spring then we know that in this Spring at least, all signs fail. However our 60-pounder wasn't concerned about human signs, for her concern in that excited pawing was without doubt a fox scent.
Once more we came onto Thacher Road, where the view of the ocean was fabulous, sparkled by a ridge of lobster pots along the edge of the beach. Continuing on, we came to the beach of Henry's Pond to see what the wife had viewed a few days earlier. It was the yellowed bole of a tree that had emerged from the sands at low tide these past few days and on which by laboratory tests, Harvard had stamped an age. That age was why the wife and I claim to have walked into 6,000 years. Scientists had said it was that old. But the tides were agin us and the sight denied us. It was a good walk just the same. And what does Molly care about the days before man walked in volume.
J.P.C., Jr.
Down a Nameless Lane - Pigeon Cove
The deluge had subsided this Sunday afternoon, and the wife and I and our four-footer decided we could chance a stroll in the North Village. So into the wheezy home cab we tumbled and set off along Beach Street in Rockport past a beach strewn with sea-red kelp, debris of all sorts, and three prone bikes plus a lonesome gull. Winter had left her mark along this shore.
Debarking on Granite Street at the old stone office of the Rockport Granite Company, we found this end of the Cape derelict of snow. The sight was a happy relief to us. We ambled past the cozy home of a lady who bought the house just so she could get an uninterrupted view of the broad Atlantic. There before her this day of days was an unruffled calm blue sea with the gentlest of white foamed surf lapping Salvages. A strong touch of Spring was ruffling through our balding hair. Even our menacing boxer Mollie felt the lure as she fairly whizzed over the terrain, once off the leash.
We came by the little domicle of George Caffrey at 52 Granite Street within which rested the faithful town servant who surrenders many hours of winter to keep our roads open in the heavy snows. No matter what he earns in those hours, we are most thankful he is willing to give up his tranquil hours just to serve us. It's so nice to snooze in bed and hear him shove through our street to breach an auto path. Maybe we don't pay him and his enough.
Nearby through striking blue gates we saw a well arranged array of flush evergreens beautifying 56 Granite Street now owed by an artist from Providence, R.I. Anthony what's his last name? We forget. But we never will forget what a grand job he has done to improve the neighborhood. A good citizen, that man.
And we noted that Hugh Smith had built himself an immense granite wall in front of his property at 103 Granite Street, a massive work that will outlive him and all of his. It would even defy a 20th century Jericho. We saw that the town fathers went beserk in numbering this main drag through the mighty proud North Village. On one side we came across a number 60 and directly across the way was 103. What a jump into space. So we found ourselves bumping against Number 103 with a full grown pilot house smack dab in the middle of a field bordered by a stone wall and a picket fence. The long granite slab atop the sone wall fascinated our penny pinching philosophy. At least we knew that no salty skipper would ever blast his orders from that wheelhouse, here or thereafter.
Here's where our normally friendly boxer met up with two speaking acquaintances, a shepherd and a collie dog. With canine fleet trailing us, we left the hardtop public way to enter a just as hardtopped but private way running between where two single tracks ran down to the sea in the old days, taking cars laden with tons of stone to be loaded onto sloops bound to the big seaports of the eastern seaboard.
We came upon mammoth granite slabs forming the pier, a 19th century setting harboring a mid-20th century low slung bungalow home framed in a natural gurgling brook that rushed in cascade style to the ocean. To its right was a beach of large bright pebbles splashed with weather-bleached driftwood, just aching for a glowing fireplace.
We had come to Professor Roger Hardy's Cove domicile, fronted by a solid granite cookout that is arbored by a Japanese-effected arch and protected by an old-fashioned stone wall that climbed at least 15 foot. By now us folks had reached mud row yielding to a false promise of Spring. For Molly and her rollicking yappers, it was a heaven of Chinese wrestling, growling and just plain sniffing. We were on our way down the un-named road to a grout pile left by the granite men of the past when they decided the gold had left the dust.
The wife and I met up with the next neighbor down the road, Norm Fitts, ex-newsman and fellow Yalesian, and his good wife, two folks who have carved a handsome seaside-terraced villa out of hardscrabble and rubble and a flabby granite business power house, ugly skyscraping black sooty smoke stack and all. Norm showed us a picture of the misery of 1900.
We were told that one of the outlanders settling in this strip of God's Heaven had the idea to christen this hallowed road, Water Margin Road but he failed of a second. Then we merged onto Pigeon Hill Road where the Fitts claim residence.
The Sunday wanderers and their meow chasers had landed plumb into a haven of nine-lifers. And when they spotted the trio of barkers, we could see those cats rush for the niches in the rocks along the shore. Ourselves we found delight in touring through the Fitts' home to see how two happy people could transform that power house into a divine dwelling with expansive fireplaces, rustic shelves, heavy ceiling timbers, and so appointed with staunch antique desks. The wife and I and even our four-footer admired their taste.
JP.C., Jr.
Debarking on Granite Street at the old stone office of the Rockport Granite Company, we found this end of the Cape derelict of snow. The sight was a happy relief to us. We ambled past the cozy home of a lady who bought the house just so she could get an uninterrupted view of the broad Atlantic. There before her this day of days was an unruffled calm blue sea with the gentlest of white foamed surf lapping Salvages. A strong touch of Spring was ruffling through our balding hair. Even our menacing boxer Mollie felt the lure as she fairly whizzed over the terrain, once off the leash.
We came by the little domicle of George Caffrey at 52 Granite Street within which rested the faithful town servant who surrenders many hours of winter to keep our roads open in the heavy snows. No matter what he earns in those hours, we are most thankful he is willing to give up his tranquil hours just to serve us. It's so nice to snooze in bed and hear him shove through our street to breach an auto path. Maybe we don't pay him and his enough.
Nearby through striking blue gates we saw a well arranged array of flush evergreens beautifying 56 Granite Street now owed by an artist from Providence, R.I. Anthony what's his last name? We forget. But we never will forget what a grand job he has done to improve the neighborhood. A good citizen, that man.
And we noted that Hugh Smith had built himself an immense granite wall in front of his property at 103 Granite Street, a massive work that will outlive him and all of his. It would even defy a 20th century Jericho. We saw that the town fathers went beserk in numbering this main drag through the mighty proud North Village. On one side we came across a number 60 and directly across the way was 103. What a jump into space. So we found ourselves bumping against Number 103 with a full grown pilot house smack dab in the middle of a field bordered by a stone wall and a picket fence. The long granite slab atop the sone wall fascinated our penny pinching philosophy. At least we knew that no salty skipper would ever blast his orders from that wheelhouse, here or thereafter.
Here's where our normally friendly boxer met up with two speaking acquaintances, a shepherd and a collie dog. With canine fleet trailing us, we left the hardtop public way to enter a just as hardtopped but private way running between where two single tracks ran down to the sea in the old days, taking cars laden with tons of stone to be loaded onto sloops bound to the big seaports of the eastern seaboard.
We came upon mammoth granite slabs forming the pier, a 19th century setting harboring a mid-20th century low slung bungalow home framed in a natural gurgling brook that rushed in cascade style to the ocean. To its right was a beach of large bright pebbles splashed with weather-bleached driftwood, just aching for a glowing fireplace.
We had come to Professor Roger Hardy's Cove domicile, fronted by a solid granite cookout that is arbored by a Japanese-effected arch and protected by an old-fashioned stone wall that climbed at least 15 foot. By now us folks had reached mud row yielding to a false promise of Spring. For Molly and her rollicking yappers, it was a heaven of Chinese wrestling, growling and just plain sniffing. We were on our way down the un-named road to a grout pile left by the granite men of the past when they decided the gold had left the dust.
The wife and I met up with the next neighbor down the road, Norm Fitts, ex-newsman and fellow Yalesian, and his good wife, two folks who have carved a handsome seaside-terraced villa out of hardscrabble and rubble and a flabby granite business power house, ugly skyscraping black sooty smoke stack and all. Norm showed us a picture of the misery of 1900.
We were told that one of the outlanders settling in this strip of God's Heaven had the idea to christen this hallowed road, Water Margin Road but he failed of a second. Then we merged onto Pigeon Hill Road where the Fitts claim residence.
The Sunday wanderers and their meow chasers had landed plumb into a haven of nine-lifers. And when they spotted the trio of barkers, we could see those cats rush for the niches in the rocks along the shore. Ourselves we found delight in touring through the Fitts' home to see how two happy people could transform that power house into a divine dwelling with expansive fireplaces, rustic shelves, heavy ceiling timbers, and so appointed with staunch antique desks. The wife and I and even our four-footer admired their taste.
JP.C., Jr.
Rowe Avenue to Steel Derrick
We ambled again into Reedland (Selectman Bill Reed's Pigeon Cove) Sunday before last, the wife and I, and again we found a delightful walk. And it wasn't long enough to tire even a confirmed autoist, but it was far more rewarding than a Sunday ride. We cheated to the extent of riding to the start at Granite Street and Rowe Avenue.
From there we set our sights for the farthermost quarry pits in that area. The wife hadn't been on that walk for nearly a score of years. Last time I had seen the early part of it was to report a pit drowning, a tragedy far more frequent in the past when swimmers haunting the water-filled abandoned quarries were more numerous. Private owners were finally forced to discourage swimmers due to the unwarranted actions of some. These owners have done royally in converting the old quarry areas into rugged inspiriting settings for idyllic living.
First thing to hit our eyes was the dark-brown stained house where resides Mrs. Alfred Otis, 89, formerly of Marblehead. We recalled it as having been painted yellow when Abbie Condon had it. The new color gave it the touch of early 17th century. Mrs. Otis bought the house so that she could always have a view of the ocean. She has it all right, the grandest kind of a view.
Right next door we spotted another of those picturesque wrought iron fences skirting the Rowe Avenue property of Elias Newman. As an added decoration, he had a large gold spread-eagle on the side of the house. A high peak to the roof and long windows stand out.
Up ahead was a huge barn made of granite blocks where in the past they say that Police Chief Jacob H. Perkio's father once had cows. And before that, the quarry owners kept oxen used in hauling the quarried granite down to the barges. Beside it was the Rowe House in which several families lived in the past. The years have taken their toll of both places but the granite itself looked little disturbed.
It was like walking along a ridge hearing the echoes of voices from below the keystone bridge hollering, "Hey, where's the elevator!" The man-made cement dam bottling the excess water supply, and the gulls screaming overhead brought us to Rockport's latest water supply, an abandoned quarry put to work fo the common goood.
Returning to the woodland path, we struck out to find the last quarry. Up past Swan's place to Wooditarns bearing the sign "Private property-do not enter" and another "No parking on either side." I began looking for some bellowing mastiff emerging from the bracken to challenge us.
But Rover never showed. Instead we came out upon a rock shelf and there before us spread a most beautiful and tranquil lake bounded by shelf upon shelf of granite. Across the way what apparently were the owners, enjoyed the gentle ease of reading the Sunday papers at the edge of the pit.
Back to the path, we noted about every native berry existing there, and even saw a wild rabbit dart across the path into the brush. What was even more delightful there was no harsh sound of cars, no heavy smell of gas or oil.
Finally we came to Steel Derrick pit, the biggest and the handsomest. Here there were several bathers sunning themselves on the ledges. Swimming seemed to be out of the picture. The water temperature hadn't climbed that high. From the quarry depths arose what looked to be Grout Island, a sizable pile of granite leavings. Ring bolts still showed in the rocks where once big derricks swung to get the blocks out of the quarry.
It's a recommended walk --by us, that is--for a restful pleasant Sunday afternoon, a great chance to renew acquaintance with your feet.
J.P.C., Jr.
From there we set our sights for the farthermost quarry pits in that area. The wife hadn't been on that walk for nearly a score of years. Last time I had seen the early part of it was to report a pit drowning, a tragedy far more frequent in the past when swimmers haunting the water-filled abandoned quarries were more numerous. Private owners were finally forced to discourage swimmers due to the unwarranted actions of some. These owners have done royally in converting the old quarry areas into rugged inspiriting settings for idyllic living.
First thing to hit our eyes was the dark-brown stained house where resides Mrs. Alfred Otis, 89, formerly of Marblehead. We recalled it as having been painted yellow when Abbie Condon had it. The new color gave it the touch of early 17th century. Mrs. Otis bought the house so that she could always have a view of the ocean. She has it all right, the grandest kind of a view.
Right next door we spotted another of those picturesque wrought iron fences skirting the Rowe Avenue property of Elias Newman. As an added decoration, he had a large gold spread-eagle on the side of the house. A high peak to the roof and long windows stand out.
Up ahead was a huge barn made of granite blocks where in the past they say that Police Chief Jacob H. Perkio's father once had cows. And before that, the quarry owners kept oxen used in hauling the quarried granite down to the barges. Beside it was the Rowe House in which several families lived in the past. The years have taken their toll of both places but the granite itself looked little disturbed.
It was like walking along a ridge hearing the echoes of voices from below the keystone bridge hollering, "Hey, where's the elevator!" The man-made cement dam bottling the excess water supply, and the gulls screaming overhead brought us to Rockport's latest water supply, an abandoned quarry put to work fo the common goood.
Returning to the woodland path, we struck out to find the last quarry. Up past Swan's place to Wooditarns bearing the sign "Private property-do not enter" and another "No parking on either side." I began looking for some bellowing mastiff emerging from the bracken to challenge us.
But Rover never showed. Instead we came out upon a rock shelf and there before us spread a most beautiful and tranquil lake bounded by shelf upon shelf of granite. Across the way what apparently were the owners, enjoyed the gentle ease of reading the Sunday papers at the edge of the pit.
Back to the path, we noted about every native berry existing there, and even saw a wild rabbit dart across the path into the brush. What was even more delightful there was no harsh sound of cars, no heavy smell of gas or oil.
Finally we came to Steel Derrick pit, the biggest and the handsomest. Here there were several bathers sunning themselves on the ledges. Swimming seemed to be out of the picture. The water temperature hadn't climbed that high. From the quarry depths arose what looked to be Grout Island, a sizable pile of granite leavings. Ring bolts still showed in the rocks where once big derricks swung to get the blocks out of the quarry.
It's a recommended walk --by us, that is--for a restful pleasant Sunday afternoon, a great chance to renew acquaintance with your feet.
J.P.C., Jr.
Tool Company to Andrews Point - Part II
Here we are again, the wife and I and our four-footer Molly with the Cove's Bill Reeds and Walter Johnsons continuing along the shore path of Pigeon Cove fringing the deep blue Atlantic. If you are like us who thought the town of Rockport had lost all its shore line you should have been there. We must have walked nearly two miles on that shore-skirting stroll without once trespassing.
At one time we were rubbing elbows with a well groomed hedge of the Ingalls estate. Then we passed in front of a spacious backyard occupied by a most attractive lady wrapped in a lawn chair enjoying the late season yachting scene and smiling at her Cove neighbors' greetings -- our guides. Real folksy!
Our selectman was mighty proud of the several town ways to the shore that he and his confreres over the years had been able to rescue for the town. We gained respect for him and his with every telling. This one we came to emerged from Phillips Avenue down through the Pingree property to the rocks. The woodland way merged into the sea. He told us about the Rev. Arthur Howe Pingree and how he gave his life to save others in a drowning tragedy.
Next we passed a common stone where the imprint of what must have been a tablet stood out like a sore thumb. We recalled that this must have been the tablet facing the sea placed in tribute to the late famed American poet, William Rose Benet. But what had become of the tablet? The wife and I recalled him and his wife, Marjorie Flack, as friends, though poetry is as hard for me to take as was castor oil in my tender years.
Ahead was a mass of gulls whitening ocean-swept boulders. What particular morsels attracted the flock to that area was beyond us. But at least we were protected from their unsavory air bombardment especially since I for one sported my Sunday best. Being gulled out from the air is not to this gentle hiker's choosing. Not with the current cleaner's prices.
There's one outstanding quality about four-footers like our 60-pound charge of dynamite. They can put to shame their supposedly more intelligent two-footers when it comes to rock scampering. While we were threading our way with old maidish caution from crag to crag, she was leagues ahead, snorting her way into new adventure. When I say "we" I really mean me because the rest of the party, including the missus, showed Alpine blood.
We passed outgrowths of spruce and pines growing along the shore and came across driftwod that would bring raves from he-men with large fireplaces. Driftwood that was whitened by time and the sea. Gnarled shapes that reflect ages.
Industrialist Walt and Town Leader Bill are not birders in the true sense like law-giver Larry Jodrey, but for the occasion both sported powerful binoculars to scan the horizon, Bill mostly to keep watch over the antics of the skin divers, Walt to bring into the focus the Isles of Shoals. They even let us take an occasional peep and to us, a glimpse at that far off patch of sea-going tug bound for Maine-iac land was much more fetching.
We came along Chapin's Gully, as Bill described it. And to us it looked like a miniature Rafe's Chasm with the sea swirling angrily in. Then to a cookout in the rocks where the Andrews Point folks hold their annual shore spread for the chosen ones.
Beyond was the exotic house of stone built by one George Bray with a companion smaller stone home on the grounds. The rough-faced stone and a wall added to the grimness of the construction.
One of the shore's marvels next faced us. Extensive veins of quartz in the ocean side ledges gleamed in the Fall brilliance. No one could explain it except to blame it on that glacier spree of ages ago. Our "selectman" had to admit he had been assigned before Christmas-times to come and chip off some for presents to amateur geologists in the family. As a good father, he did so. We would, too.
Ambling along a beautifully built stone wall standing seven feet tall we finally made Hoop Pole Cove. Neither guide could tell us why the name. But all of us had to admire its loveliness with its picturesque brown snails tht youngsters of Bill's and others love to color for keepsakes -- even for ear rings.
And finally to the Walter Johnson homestead for good old Svenska java and the richest softest sponge cake you ever tasted. Marie is a grand cook as well as a friendly guide to us of the South Village. The wife and I and the menace can truthfully say it was our best Sunday walk. Now we know why Cover-ers say they have the best. To that we heartily say Amen!
J.P.C., JR.
At one time we were rubbing elbows with a well groomed hedge of the Ingalls estate. Then we passed in front of a spacious backyard occupied by a most attractive lady wrapped in a lawn chair enjoying the late season yachting scene and smiling at her Cove neighbors' greetings -- our guides. Real folksy!
Our selectman was mighty proud of the several town ways to the shore that he and his confreres over the years had been able to rescue for the town. We gained respect for him and his with every telling. This one we came to emerged from Phillips Avenue down through the Pingree property to the rocks. The woodland way merged into the sea. He told us about the Rev. Arthur Howe Pingree and how he gave his life to save others in a drowning tragedy.
Next we passed a common stone where the imprint of what must have been a tablet stood out like a sore thumb. We recalled that this must have been the tablet facing the sea placed in tribute to the late famed American poet, William Rose Benet. But what had become of the tablet? The wife and I recalled him and his wife, Marjorie Flack, as friends, though poetry is as hard for me to take as was castor oil in my tender years.
Ahead was a mass of gulls whitening ocean-swept boulders. What particular morsels attracted the flock to that area was beyond us. But at least we were protected from their unsavory air bombardment especially since I for one sported my Sunday best. Being gulled out from the air is not to this gentle hiker's choosing. Not with the current cleaner's prices.
There's one outstanding quality about four-footers like our 60-pound charge of dynamite. They can put to shame their supposedly more intelligent two-footers when it comes to rock scampering. While we were threading our way with old maidish caution from crag to crag, she was leagues ahead, snorting her way into new adventure. When I say "we" I really mean me because the rest of the party, including the missus, showed Alpine blood.
We passed outgrowths of spruce and pines growing along the shore and came across driftwod that would bring raves from he-men with large fireplaces. Driftwood that was whitened by time and the sea. Gnarled shapes that reflect ages.
Industrialist Walt and Town Leader Bill are not birders in the true sense like law-giver Larry Jodrey, but for the occasion both sported powerful binoculars to scan the horizon, Bill mostly to keep watch over the antics of the skin divers, Walt to bring into the focus the Isles of Shoals. They even let us take an occasional peep and to us, a glimpse at that far off patch of sea-going tug bound for Maine-iac land was much more fetching.
We came along Chapin's Gully, as Bill described it. And to us it looked like a miniature Rafe's Chasm with the sea swirling angrily in. Then to a cookout in the rocks where the Andrews Point folks hold their annual shore spread for the chosen ones.
Beyond was the exotic house of stone built by one George Bray with a companion smaller stone home on the grounds. The rough-faced stone and a wall added to the grimness of the construction.
One of the shore's marvels next faced us. Extensive veins of quartz in the ocean side ledges gleamed in the Fall brilliance. No one could explain it except to blame it on that glacier spree of ages ago. Our "selectman" had to admit he had been assigned before Christmas-times to come and chip off some for presents to amateur geologists in the family. As a good father, he did so. We would, too.
Ambling along a beautifully built stone wall standing seven feet tall we finally made Hoop Pole Cove. Neither guide could tell us why the name. But all of us had to admire its loveliness with its picturesque brown snails tht youngsters of Bill's and others love to color for keepsakes -- even for ear rings.
And finally to the Walter Johnson homestead for good old Svenska java and the richest softest sponge cake you ever tasted. Marie is a grand cook as well as a friendly guide to us of the South Village. The wife and I and the menace can truthfully say it was our best Sunday walk. Now we know why Cover-ers say they have the best. To that we heartily say Amen!
J.P.C., JR.
Tool Company to Andrews Point - Part I
When the wife and I walked along the Pigeon Cove shore we saw so much it takes two installments to tell it all. We were with Rockport's dean of selectmen, Bill Reed and his missus, and the Walter Johnsons of Phillips Avenue.
We soon found out that the most delightful side of the North Village is the back side. The start was from the Tool Company where Walter reigns daytimes. From the uplands we overlooked the active little harbor. Working on his boat we noted the veteran fisherman "Honey" Oman.
On a shed was the lettering, "Sta Out!" done in the good old Svenska colors of blue and yellow. Along the path was a beer keg buoy. Here our 60-pound canine cyclone met her first dog of the day. That event ups heart to mouth wondering if 'tis friend or foe. But it was jolly sniffing, dog-wise, and off they hopped to share explorations. We breathed easier.
Selectman Reed, who has the only house on LaRose Avenue, spoke of the seaweed along the shore that he used for fertilizer and found it paid off. We skirted the shore back of the Hotel Edward, where Bill once bell-hopped and hoisted the flag every morning.
In front of us was the old Pigeon Cove School building where kiddoes went to classes in the first and second and fifth and sixth grades, now the home of Victor Lawn, a recent addition to Sandy Bay.
Walter called our attention to a mass of overgrown pobble stones which he labeled seagull eggs. Sheer white by eternal washing of the seas, they stood out as a waterfront heritage. We were threading our way along a rough hewn path. To the rear was thick brush. Before us was sheer ledge and always the sea. A glorious sea of turquoise blue was dotted with white sails manned by those Rockport yachtsmen who refuse to call it a season.
In advance we warned that under no circumstances would we imitate a mountain goat on this safari. But we just can't never win nohow. That nimble Town Hall savant Bill Reed kept us scampering from one boulder to another. Native pride alone kept us from ker-plopping. Sunday-best shoes were never made for such ramblings.
Weekend skindivers from Lord knows where were noted along the rocks with their red buoy flags, their oxygen tanks and man-from Mars rubber suits, ready to explore the ocean's bottom, maybe for lobsters, maybe for stones, and maybe just for the fun of it. With the temperature falling, none of us envied the venturesome youngsters.
Fascinating was the fact that along this shore path, you would mince over granite slabs that nature dumped there in some age or other, and then fade into a secluded woodland path flanked by brush and briar with bushes sporting pale blueish berries that even a "dawg" shouldn't taste. Nature is all snarled up in Pigeon Cove.
One sure thing, our Molly was not berry-picking. She just loved those high-flying birds that haunt the shore. She had herself a real ball trying to leap high enough to reach the pin feathers of a goose, skimming the shore. But the old gal had finally met her topper. They were miles ahead. The goose in our oven would never hang high because of our Molly. Who cares! I'm a steak hound when the dividends pour in.
We passed the quiet depths of the rock strewn shore where the mothers of the Cove are wont to bring their young'uns summer-times to bathe in a quiet swimming pool of ocean water. That recess is carved by the elements. Even Al Faulk couldn't have done better by it!
Ahead of us that eager beaver selectman started pulling up what to us was just ignoble chick-weed. Reed sounded irked by our ignorance as he exclaimed: "That's ragweed!" I'm just one of those characters that ragweed never harmed so why should I yank it out of existence?
It was a longer hike than the wife and I usually take but worth all the time and effort.
J.P.C., Jr.
We soon found out that the most delightful side of the North Village is the back side. The start was from the Tool Company where Walter reigns daytimes. From the uplands we overlooked the active little harbor. Working on his boat we noted the veteran fisherman "Honey" Oman.
On a shed was the lettering, "Sta Out!" done in the good old Svenska colors of blue and yellow. Along the path was a beer keg buoy. Here our 60-pound canine cyclone met her first dog of the day. That event ups heart to mouth wondering if 'tis friend or foe. But it was jolly sniffing, dog-wise, and off they hopped to share explorations. We breathed easier.
Selectman Reed, who has the only house on LaRose Avenue, spoke of the seaweed along the shore that he used for fertilizer and found it paid off. We skirted the shore back of the Hotel Edward, where Bill once bell-hopped and hoisted the flag every morning.
In front of us was the old Pigeon Cove School building where kiddoes went to classes in the first and second and fifth and sixth grades, now the home of Victor Lawn, a recent addition to Sandy Bay.
Walter called our attention to a mass of overgrown pobble stones which he labeled seagull eggs. Sheer white by eternal washing of the seas, they stood out as a waterfront heritage. We were threading our way along a rough hewn path. To the rear was thick brush. Before us was sheer ledge and always the sea. A glorious sea of turquoise blue was dotted with white sails manned by those Rockport yachtsmen who refuse to call it a season.
In advance we warned that under no circumstances would we imitate a mountain goat on this safari. But we just can't never win nohow. That nimble Town Hall savant Bill Reed kept us scampering from one boulder to another. Native pride alone kept us from ker-plopping. Sunday-best shoes were never made for such ramblings.
Weekend skindivers from Lord knows where were noted along the rocks with their red buoy flags, their oxygen tanks and man-from Mars rubber suits, ready to explore the ocean's bottom, maybe for lobsters, maybe for stones, and maybe just for the fun of it. With the temperature falling, none of us envied the venturesome youngsters.
Fascinating was the fact that along this shore path, you would mince over granite slabs that nature dumped there in some age or other, and then fade into a secluded woodland path flanked by brush and briar with bushes sporting pale blueish berries that even a "dawg" shouldn't taste. Nature is all snarled up in Pigeon Cove.
One sure thing, our Molly was not berry-picking. She just loved those high-flying birds that haunt the shore. She had herself a real ball trying to leap high enough to reach the pin feathers of a goose, skimming the shore. But the old gal had finally met her topper. They were miles ahead. The goose in our oven would never hang high because of our Molly. Who cares! I'm a steak hound when the dividends pour in.
We passed the quiet depths of the rock strewn shore where the mothers of the Cove are wont to bring their young'uns summer-times to bathe in a quiet swimming pool of ocean water. That recess is carved by the elements. Even Al Faulk couldn't have done better by it!
Ahead of us that eager beaver selectman started pulling up what to us was just ignoble chick-weed. Reed sounded irked by our ignorance as he exclaimed: "That's ragweed!" I'm just one of those characters that ragweed never harmed so why should I yank it out of existence?
It was a longer hike than the wife and I usually take but worth all the time and effort.
J.P.C., Jr.
A Walk in Yap-Land
The wife and I and our Molly with the pointed ears decided to revisit Halibut Point Reservation, Pigeon Cove, Saturday afternoon so that our incognito friend could take color pictures of one of the most beautiful spots on Cape Ann. Because of an out-of-town Sunday excursion that was a "must" we did the hike on Saturday afternoon and soon realized we had picked a perfect day weather-wise, for where it was easterly raw in Rockport proper, it was actually mid-summery in most parts of the Reservation.
As we entered Gott Avenue, we were greeted by the greatest acclaim from "yappers" that we had ever experienced. All had sensed right away that there was a foreign pooch invading their realm, and they let the lady boxer have it. It sounded like a flood of kennels stashed together. But it was all most friendly, hounds, terriers,and just plain mutts. Those folks do well by their canines.
We were in deep country right away for to our left was the sight of wing-flapping geese, the blatant bellowing of a cow in a rustic barn; across the way was the refreshing sight of a hopeful effort of fir tree reforestation. It looked right healthy from where we stood. At this point the east wind was shrill.
We passed the picturesque 17th century Gott House with its sharply pitched roof, one of the oldest on the Cape, and certainly one year older than when we last enjoyed its exterior. Here we left the road and cut through a brambled path, hoping to reach the sea We came to the first dead-end road of our walking career. But it was worth looking at with its ancient stone wall of Concord character on the left and a mass of ouchy green brambles that reached to the top of the trees on the right. Molly had a good time, too.
Backtracking, we picked another promising path down which we had to wade ankle-deep through mushy growth with the sound of the sea drowning out the yappers, only to realize we would need a skin diving suit to complete the ramble. Again we back-tracked.
This time the pilot, after believing she might have espied marigold coming to life in the dankness, decided that a paved road would best fit the leather we sported. Me, I was with her 100 percentum.
On both paths, the temperature was silky warm. We could have picnicked there that day in comfort, far better off than in summer because nary a pesky skeeter was buzzing. We passed by another homey appearing layout where not only geese and hounds were in evidence but also rabbits that took us back to the days when we too had a blown-up bunny that brought tears to our youngsters' eyes when Bunny up and died.
Nearby was what looked like an old-fashioned but much dilapidated lunch cart. It had the appearances of a parlor car on the Toonerville Trolley line but it was a sure-fire subject for an artist's brush. Maybe it has already been discovered and the catch is hanging in some gallery in the land.
Here we entered upon Fire Lane with no explanation from anyone as to how it got its flaming name. We did note that our police recognized what a hot place it must be since they had a bold "No Parking" sign on it. At our age, we didn't think the police would be distturbed by our invading it on foot.
From there we came onto the paved highway that leads to the sea. That Saturday all involved put on a great show for us. The raucous sounds of the suburban yards were replaced by an amazing change of pace. It was like entering a chapel with the doleful peal of a bell on a rocking buoy at sea, the deep-throated roar of the sickly green surf smashing onto the rocks.
For Molly, who worries little over any other sounds than those of fellow four-footers, it was Paradise as she raced up and down the macadam and scoured through the brush on either side.
For us and our lens-rapt guest it was an afternoon well spent. Halibut Point, come winter or summer, is worth your walking attention. It will ease the ulcers. That, the wife and I will assure you.
J.P.C., Jr.
As we entered Gott Avenue, we were greeted by the greatest acclaim from "yappers" that we had ever experienced. All had sensed right away that there was a foreign pooch invading their realm, and they let the lady boxer have it. It sounded like a flood of kennels stashed together. But it was all most friendly, hounds, terriers,and just plain mutts. Those folks do well by their canines.
We were in deep country right away for to our left was the sight of wing-flapping geese, the blatant bellowing of a cow in a rustic barn; across the way was the refreshing sight of a hopeful effort of fir tree reforestation. It looked right healthy from where we stood. At this point the east wind was shrill.
We passed the picturesque 17th century Gott House with its sharply pitched roof, one of the oldest on the Cape, and certainly one year older than when we last enjoyed its exterior. Here we left the road and cut through a brambled path, hoping to reach the sea We came to the first dead-end road of our walking career. But it was worth looking at with its ancient stone wall of Concord character on the left and a mass of ouchy green brambles that reached to the top of the trees on the right. Molly had a good time, too.
Backtracking, we picked another promising path down which we had to wade ankle-deep through mushy growth with the sound of the sea drowning out the yappers, only to realize we would need a skin diving suit to complete the ramble. Again we back-tracked.
This time the pilot, after believing she might have espied marigold coming to life in the dankness, decided that a paved road would best fit the leather we sported. Me, I was with her 100 percentum.
On both paths, the temperature was silky warm. We could have picnicked there that day in comfort, far better off than in summer because nary a pesky skeeter was buzzing. We passed by another homey appearing layout where not only geese and hounds were in evidence but also rabbits that took us back to the days when we too had a blown-up bunny that brought tears to our youngsters' eyes when Bunny up and died.
Nearby was what looked like an old-fashioned but much dilapidated lunch cart. It had the appearances of a parlor car on the Toonerville Trolley line but it was a sure-fire subject for an artist's brush. Maybe it has already been discovered and the catch is hanging in some gallery in the land.
Here we entered upon Fire Lane with no explanation from anyone as to how it got its flaming name. We did note that our police recognized what a hot place it must be since they had a bold "No Parking" sign on it. At our age, we didn't think the police would be distturbed by our invading it on foot.
From there we came onto the paved highway that leads to the sea. That Saturday all involved put on a great show for us. The raucous sounds of the suburban yards were replaced by an amazing change of pace. It was like entering a chapel with the doleful peal of a bell on a rocking buoy at sea, the deep-throated roar of the sickly green surf smashing onto the rocks.
For Molly, who worries little over any other sounds than those of fellow four-footers, it was Paradise as she raced up and down the macadam and scoured through the brush on either side.
For us and our lens-rapt guest it was an afternoon well spent. Halibut Point, come winter or summer, is worth your walking attention. It will ease the ulcers. That, the wife and I will assure you.
J.P.C., Jr.
Thursday, December 10, 2009
Around the Loop
It was the Sunday before town meeting when the wife and I decided to take a walk around the block in Sandy Bay without our two-ton boxer in tow. Our Molly was still stuck with her tomato juice anti-skunk treatment and who are we to share such a scent with the world. Molly is at an age when she should be more choosey of her friends.
The air was brittle but the March sun was bright and it was no pain to be afoot. Round School, up Broadway past many a familiar scene and home we went, knowing that within many walls along the way were friends who chose to browse over what might be the last Boston Sunday papers for awhile. Which made us unhappy to think of our Boston newspaper friends who would be minus that friendly weekly check in the interim through no doing of their own. As we passed St. Mary's from our irreverent lips of long standing, we dropped a prayer for an early end to that workless period. But who hears a heathen?
We recall that old saying by Lord knows who, "If winter comes, can Spring be far behind?" We seemed to recall it was the title of a book popular in the flush Twenties. A glance along the roadside indicated Spring was awhistling for attention. All the snow was practically gone--not that Salty Owens of Public Works and his gang would let it linger. The little left was hardly fit to drink. Instead there were puddles, puddles, puddles, which if consolidated could mount up to several days' supply of usable water, that is if you are a puddle drinker. We're not, even though Molly is an avid guzzler of such surface supplies.
As we approached the town parking lot, we realized it was the time for the pause that refreshes, that is for a defogging of the extra pair of eyes if we expected to stay on course. As much as we deny advancing years, there are times when we get it right between the eyes, as our old TV pal Gunsmoke might snarl.
On our street we had seen few parked cars this Sunday afternoon, which surprised us because of the clear weather but on our far from gay Broadway, the car traffic flow was tremenjus, which convinced us that our town constabulary, top gun Jake, must get our vote come the next night for his radar. Our neighbors agreed and he got. Says the song, what Lulu wants, Lulu gets (or is it Lola)? In our town that song goes what Jake wants (police-wise, that is) Jake gets. That's why we can sleep nights, peace-wise.
But to get back to the bunyon beating, again we admired how well policed are the grounds of the post office and the town office building, showing that those custodians, once known as humble janitors, have a real pride in their work.
Up past the Methodist Church, a massive edifice in sheer white with an architectural design including a great circle within a triangle. It is part of the Rockport scene.
We reached the third prominent church on this pristine Broadway (cleansed as never was that Manhattan path to perdition). It is St. Joachim's, that we view with its hot-topped strip marked "Clergy,"which means that only the car of the good Father can rest there as he in church tries to pull the sinners away from that ol' devil.
Never meeting a fellow soul on foot on this short walk around the so-called Rockport Loop, we passed the stately old home of our late family doctor, Ezra Eames Cleaves, a great country practitioner, who laughed at us when in the '40's we were knocked out by the mumps an ailment that males should never get at that age. Medicos like our Dr. Cleaves, and our Dr. Earl Greene are (unhappily to us) fading from the scene. They only die rich in the worship of us common folk. And don't you forget there are still some of us common folk still breathing.
Down Main St. we eyed a sign on a barn in old English lettering, "Antiques Etc." Only a school teacher like Gert Abbott Hutchings could have thought up such a sign. Cute is the word.
But the piece de resistance was the Al Remick house on this Main St. with its Christmas wreath and its string of colored Yuletide lights on the front door proving that our Al or his good wife, or both, believe that Christmas is 365 days in the year, not one day or week. We buy that, and the sight of it gave us a joyful lift as we continued our amble to home and the nasty leering look from a Molly we had rudely snubbed because of nose trouble.
Anyway we had fun of a Sabbath matinee, why not you to trim that waistline?
J.P.C., Jr.
The air was brittle but the March sun was bright and it was no pain to be afoot. Round School, up Broadway past many a familiar scene and home we went, knowing that within many walls along the way were friends who chose to browse over what might be the last Boston Sunday papers for awhile. Which made us unhappy to think of our Boston newspaper friends who would be minus that friendly weekly check in the interim through no doing of their own. As we passed St. Mary's from our irreverent lips of long standing, we dropped a prayer for an early end to that workless period. But who hears a heathen?
We recall that old saying by Lord knows who, "If winter comes, can Spring be far behind?" We seemed to recall it was the title of a book popular in the flush Twenties. A glance along the roadside indicated Spring was awhistling for attention. All the snow was practically gone--not that Salty Owens of Public Works and his gang would let it linger. The little left was hardly fit to drink. Instead there were puddles, puddles, puddles, which if consolidated could mount up to several days' supply of usable water, that is if you are a puddle drinker. We're not, even though Molly is an avid guzzler of such surface supplies.
As we approached the town parking lot, we realized it was the time for the pause that refreshes, that is for a defogging of the extra pair of eyes if we expected to stay on course. As much as we deny advancing years, there are times when we get it right between the eyes, as our old TV pal Gunsmoke might snarl.
On our street we had seen few parked cars this Sunday afternoon, which surprised us because of the clear weather but on our far from gay Broadway, the car traffic flow was tremenjus, which convinced us that our town constabulary, top gun Jake, must get our vote come the next night for his radar. Our neighbors agreed and he got. Says the song, what Lulu wants, Lulu gets (or is it Lola)? In our town that song goes what Jake wants (police-wise, that is) Jake gets. That's why we can sleep nights, peace-wise.
But to get back to the bunyon beating, again we admired how well policed are the grounds of the post office and the town office building, showing that those custodians, once known as humble janitors, have a real pride in their work.
Up past the Methodist Church, a massive edifice in sheer white with an architectural design including a great circle within a triangle. It is part of the Rockport scene.
We reached the third prominent church on this pristine Broadway (cleansed as never was that Manhattan path to perdition). It is St. Joachim's, that we view with its hot-topped strip marked "Clergy,"which means that only the car of the good Father can rest there as he in church tries to pull the sinners away from that ol' devil.
Never meeting a fellow soul on foot on this short walk around the so-called Rockport Loop, we passed the stately old home of our late family doctor, Ezra Eames Cleaves, a great country practitioner, who laughed at us when in the '40's we were knocked out by the mumps an ailment that males should never get at that age. Medicos like our Dr. Cleaves, and our Dr. Earl Greene are (unhappily to us) fading from the scene. They only die rich in the worship of us common folk. And don't you forget there are still some of us common folk still breathing.
Down Main St. we eyed a sign on a barn in old English lettering, "Antiques Etc." Only a school teacher like Gert Abbott Hutchings could have thought up such a sign. Cute is the word.
But the piece de resistance was the Al Remick house on this Main St. with its Christmas wreath and its string of colored Yuletide lights on the front door proving that our Al or his good wife, or both, believe that Christmas is 365 days in the year, not one day or week. We buy that, and the sight of it gave us a joyful lift as we continued our amble to home and the nasty leering look from a Molly we had rudely snubbed because of nose trouble.
Anyway we had fun of a Sabbath matinee, why not you to trim that waistline?
J.P.C., Jr.
Walk With A View In Mind
Sunday seemed to miss the feel of Spring somehow. It was dull and sleepy, probably because of the lost hour. But a Sunday stroll, long or short, has become an order of the day in this house for the wife and I. And of course she does the pickin', however weird that may be. This time she defied the weather by searching for a view. And a view means back in the mountain goat routine.
This time it was Drumlin Road in Pigeon Cove. Before we ran out of that stock of breath, we found why folks have built on the side of this hill. Our valley dwelling took on the atmosphere of a hole in the ground.
Just above the growing ruins of the staunch stone barn, we came upon what could pass for a quiet small lake to one side of the road. It is another rain-filled abandoned quarry pit that Molly fell in love with right away. The old gal was cute. She four-legged it out a few feet until she sensed there was nothing but space one step ahead. The boxer didn't mind a bit of a dousing but hardly a full bath. Back she came to us to shower the Sunday suit with her shaking.
Up ahead of us bearing the mien of post-card scenes of the terraced dwellings of Italy, was a sweep of comparatively new homes of the "close to earth" style pioneered by the late famed architect, Frank Lloyd Wright. What a change from the last time we hit that trail a score of years ago. Odd as they look to a conventional home owner, there's appeal to the way they hug the ground, and stay on the first floor.
It wasn't only the pipe we were puffing on that climb. Anybody that admits to the half century mark would be puffing like ol' Peppersass of Mount Washington's cog railroad. Bu every huff brough us nearer to that view we were after.
We envied these folks who awake to scan a panorama second to none on the Cape. Smokey as the day was, dropping a filmy curtain on the horizon, the eye swept around from Sandy Bay Breakwater over to the Great Hill water standpipe. And nearer to us could be seen swirling in the sky, thousands of white wings, gulls who were enjoying the lake-like quarry pits including the town's reserve water supply.
The gulls were much too high to bother Molly, the distant view fell dead upon her. Only the near-at-hand is her world and by this time, that came in the form of three chummy dogs, one a itty-bitty fellah, the others, twins of a handsome variety. Their home is the hill-top. We breathed a sigh of relief. All four made friends in a matter of seconds and scampered all over the lot. 'Tis nice to know that Mollie was a lady.
One fine home that might have been called "Last Breath" because it sure took ours to reach it, even sported a greenhouse attached to it. The RFD mail box that must get its deposits by whirleybird had the name of Wentworth on it. Furthermore, it was the only home along the way where there was a sign of folks busy on the grounds. But every property looked spic and span.
Coming onto Landmark Lane we continued the short distance to the Pigeon Cove standpipe to guess at some of the myriads of carved initial combinations noting that love had passed this way more often than elsewhere. We never were the initial carving type. We did recall how our younger used to enjoy pelting this standpipe to hear the pings and pongs.
It was good to see that someone has installed benches in a field just below the standpipe, for they provide seats for those who want to view the compact village below them emphaszed by the tool company's chimney and the Hotel Edwards with its shelves of granite lining the shore. Of course, summer adds the appeal of the yacht races. A grandstand seat free for the climbing. Spring may have escaped the air, but it can never escape that hill and its command of the Rockport scene. Try it sometime. Great for the varicose veins!
J.P.C., Jr.
This time it was Drumlin Road in Pigeon Cove. Before we ran out of that stock of breath, we found why folks have built on the side of this hill. Our valley dwelling took on the atmosphere of a hole in the ground.
Just above the growing ruins of the staunch stone barn, we came upon what could pass for a quiet small lake to one side of the road. It is another rain-filled abandoned quarry pit that Molly fell in love with right away. The old gal was cute. She four-legged it out a few feet until she sensed there was nothing but space one step ahead. The boxer didn't mind a bit of a dousing but hardly a full bath. Back she came to us to shower the Sunday suit with her shaking.
Up ahead of us bearing the mien of post-card scenes of the terraced dwellings of Italy, was a sweep of comparatively new homes of the "close to earth" style pioneered by the late famed architect, Frank Lloyd Wright. What a change from the last time we hit that trail a score of years ago. Odd as they look to a conventional home owner, there's appeal to the way they hug the ground, and stay on the first floor.
It wasn't only the pipe we were puffing on that climb. Anybody that admits to the half century mark would be puffing like ol' Peppersass of Mount Washington's cog railroad. Bu every huff brough us nearer to that view we were after.
We envied these folks who awake to scan a panorama second to none on the Cape. Smokey as the day was, dropping a filmy curtain on the horizon, the eye swept around from Sandy Bay Breakwater over to the Great Hill water standpipe. And nearer to us could be seen swirling in the sky, thousands of white wings, gulls who were enjoying the lake-like quarry pits including the town's reserve water supply.
The gulls were much too high to bother Molly, the distant view fell dead upon her. Only the near-at-hand is her world and by this time, that came in the form of three chummy dogs, one a itty-bitty fellah, the others, twins of a handsome variety. Their home is the hill-top. We breathed a sigh of relief. All four made friends in a matter of seconds and scampered all over the lot. 'Tis nice to know that Mollie was a lady.
One fine home that might have been called "Last Breath" because it sure took ours to reach it, even sported a greenhouse attached to it. The RFD mail box that must get its deposits by whirleybird had the name of Wentworth on it. Furthermore, it was the only home along the way where there was a sign of folks busy on the grounds. But every property looked spic and span.
Coming onto Landmark Lane we continued the short distance to the Pigeon Cove standpipe to guess at some of the myriads of carved initial combinations noting that love had passed this way more often than elsewhere. We never were the initial carving type. We did recall how our younger used to enjoy pelting this standpipe to hear the pings and pongs.
It was good to see that someone has installed benches in a field just below the standpipe, for they provide seats for those who want to view the compact village below them emphaszed by the tool company's chimney and the Hotel Edwards with its shelves of granite lining the shore. Of course, summer adds the appeal of the yacht races. A grandstand seat free for the climbing. Spring may have escaped the air, but it can never escape that hill and its command of the Rockport scene. Try it sometime. Great for the varicose veins!
J.P.C., Jr.
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Don't Fence Me In
Young enough to remember that old favorite "Don't Fence Me In?" Thinking about it caused us to take notice on a recent village stroll around Rockport just what people today considered as fences for their properties. Have to admit we hadn't taken as much care in this regard on previous walks; just seemed to take the boundary protectors for granted whether there or not.
The pencil recorded all manner of fences. It seemed as if some types dated the property in several instances, and punctuated the social standing of the owner. On High Street, smack dab in front of us, was a window out of the past, of 20 panes of glass in a tumbledown structure that once served as a neighborhood store with coffee grinder, penny candy, and the like. But no fence of any sort.
Then before us was an old-fashioned picket fence. A peek over it revealed a bush that must have been all of 20 feet high topped with heaven-sent pussywillows, tips almost as high as the eaves of the house.
Fences or no fences, we had to stop right there to breathe in the glory of crocuses in bloom despite the sharp tang of winter in spring-time. Right by we noted the spanking new home of one-time Rockport police chief Dick ("Squizzle") Manson on the same street, with no need of a fence. It brought back memories of real Rockport people, like Capt. Ralph Nelson whose brand new lobster boat that he built in his backyard down on Old Garden Road has been dunked in the briny ready for Fipennies or Jeffreys.
Back to fences...we were eager to see at least one wrought iron fence. We recalled one that bordered the old Town Hall, and went to the dump when modernists after a real struggle tore down the formidable three-story structure and the fence.
On High Street we passed the Caleb Norwood House circa 1806 and saw old iron foot scrapers on both sides of granite slabs, a red-brick walk leading up to the door, and in front to the street, a huge granite slab. In those days, ladies and gentlemen would never think of entering a house without scraping the dirt from their shoes on the iron scrapers.
Along Main Street were varied fences. In front of the brick building housing the telephone dial system was a rough stone wall that might have graced the Lexington line of resistance to the Redcoats; just plain boulders without a dab of cement.
Aha! At last we found our iron fence, in front of the old George Ira Tarr house on Main Street, the house of a Rockport commercial baron of that day; a man whose sounds were not musical, but extremely fishy. These seemingly iron pickets were spaced by impressive granite pillars. Only a closer look and feel revealed that all is not iron that is stained brown. Wood, that's what it was, but a good facsimile.
Back along Broadway Avenue, we found a modern picket fence along the Catholic parish house where Father Donald Whalen resides. This fence with its arched sweep is respectfully aged yet current.
As we came along Pleasant Street we struck oil. There in front of us was a real wrought iron fence of the past, complete even to the iron statue of a cute little darkie ready to serve as a hitching post if perchance you had a nag to tether. We really had stepped into another generation.
As for stone walls. Along that stretch there were all manner of such, from boulder on boulder to polished granite slabs cement-welded, enjoyed only by the well-to-do. Rockport is blessed by these boulder walls and fences. They have characters not enjoyed by any other type of fence in our book.
Fence-looking brought the wife and us up one of Rockport's quaintest lanes. We have always known it as Dishwater Lane. Others of a more recent generation tell us it is known as Cusick's Lane. At any rate, it winds from Main Street through to Cleaves Street, and today they honor it with the title Highland Street. At least it has a steep but short hill that provides good coasting.
And here we saw that hedges could be proper for any generation. Rockport has countless hedges, attractive, perhaps economical--and think of the daily exercises experienced by daddies come summertime clipping.
"Don't fence me in?" Bosh! The best-looking grounds are those that are fenced in,whether by Minute Men stonewall, or iron, or granite slabs, or pickets or privet.
J.P.C., Jr.
The pencil recorded all manner of fences. It seemed as if some types dated the property in several instances, and punctuated the social standing of the owner. On High Street, smack dab in front of us, was a window out of the past, of 20 panes of glass in a tumbledown structure that once served as a neighborhood store with coffee grinder, penny candy, and the like. But no fence of any sort.
Then before us was an old-fashioned picket fence. A peek over it revealed a bush that must have been all of 20 feet high topped with heaven-sent pussywillows, tips almost as high as the eaves of the house.
Fences or no fences, we had to stop right there to breathe in the glory of crocuses in bloom despite the sharp tang of winter in spring-time. Right by we noted the spanking new home of one-time Rockport police chief Dick ("Squizzle") Manson on the same street, with no need of a fence. It brought back memories of real Rockport people, like Capt. Ralph Nelson whose brand new lobster boat that he built in his backyard down on Old Garden Road has been dunked in the briny ready for Fipennies or Jeffreys.
Back to fences...we were eager to see at least one wrought iron fence. We recalled one that bordered the old Town Hall, and went to the dump when modernists after a real struggle tore down the formidable three-story structure and the fence.
On High Street we passed the Caleb Norwood House circa 1806 and saw old iron foot scrapers on both sides of granite slabs, a red-brick walk leading up to the door, and in front to the street, a huge granite slab. In those days, ladies and gentlemen would never think of entering a house without scraping the dirt from their shoes on the iron scrapers.
Along Main Street were varied fences. In front of the brick building housing the telephone dial system was a rough stone wall that might have graced the Lexington line of resistance to the Redcoats; just plain boulders without a dab of cement.
Aha! At last we found our iron fence, in front of the old George Ira Tarr house on Main Street, the house of a Rockport commercial baron of that day; a man whose sounds were not musical, but extremely fishy. These seemingly iron pickets were spaced by impressive granite pillars. Only a closer look and feel revealed that all is not iron that is stained brown. Wood, that's what it was, but a good facsimile.
Back along Broadway Avenue, we found a modern picket fence along the Catholic parish house where Father Donald Whalen resides. This fence with its arched sweep is respectfully aged yet current.
As we came along Pleasant Street we struck oil. There in front of us was a real wrought iron fence of the past, complete even to the iron statue of a cute little darkie ready to serve as a hitching post if perchance you had a nag to tether. We really had stepped into another generation.
As for stone walls. Along that stretch there were all manner of such, from boulder on boulder to polished granite slabs cement-welded, enjoyed only by the well-to-do. Rockport is blessed by these boulder walls and fences. They have characters not enjoyed by any other type of fence in our book.
Fence-looking brought the wife and us up one of Rockport's quaintest lanes. We have always known it as Dishwater Lane. Others of a more recent generation tell us it is known as Cusick's Lane. At any rate, it winds from Main Street through to Cleaves Street, and today they honor it with the title Highland Street. At least it has a steep but short hill that provides good coasting.
And here we saw that hedges could be proper for any generation. Rockport has countless hedges, attractive, perhaps economical--and think of the daily exercises experienced by daddies come summertime clipping.
"Don't fence me in?" Bosh! The best-looking grounds are those that are fenced in,whether by Minute Men stonewall, or iron, or granite slabs, or pickets or privet.
J.P.C., Jr.
Long Beach Spring
The sun smiled warmly upon us -- the wife, Molly, the boxer, and me -- as we shortened our Sunday stroll to walk the length of Long Beach and return to the family chariot. An engagement prevented a longer hike.
There is nothing more barren looking than a summer resort area early in Spring. With buds a-popping, grass beginning to green, and a perfectly mild day, the boarded-up cottages with no sign of life within resemble tombs. What a contrast to the sparkle of midsummer!
There were signs of life as we approached the beach. Off in a parking lot were dads and sons opening the baseball season. It was the kind of fraternizing that keeps the sons' confidence through the years. And it's a great cure for juvenile delinquency.
What interested us, as it must have more than 50 others noted along the beach lanes, was the status of the brand new seawall that Builder Joseph Perry and his men from New Bedford are constructing. We can report that they are making grand progress. Large sections of it are already done. The section near Gloucester is all done except for replacing the metal rails and stairways. Yet to be done are sections toward the Rockport end.
They tell us that two Gloucestermen, Curtis Clark and Louis Houle, came close to death last Thursday while working on the wall construction. The 36-foot wooden form, eight feet high and four feet wide, into which the concrete is poured, fell over on them. Fortunately it pinned them into yielding sand instead of onto ledge. A large gang of workers rushed over and by sheer brute strength succeeded in lifting the form enough so the two could wriggle out. There wasn't time to get the hoist alongside. Only injury reported was a bruised arm for Clark.
The wife recalled that a half century ago her folks had a cottage at this beach and observed that some of the places hadn't changed a bit. There are fewer weathervanes and flagpoles displayed than in the past. The "architecture" is the same helter-skelter type, just as the summer folks drop clothes fashions once they come through the toll gate road.
The tide was low, the surf foamy but musical. The sand was that hardness that horses love. One young man was giving his horse a gallop up and down the entire strand. That was right up Molly's alley. She tried her speed with that of the horse, and darned if she didn't overtake the fine looking equine and stay with her for quite a distance. But it sure winded that boxer.
We used to cuss people who let their dogs run on the beaches. But now we see it from the other side of the fence. Of course we know that the old gal can't have her freedom in the bathing season, but during the winter and spring what better place to let 'em streak? She was quick to rub noses, or whatever dogs do to get acquainted, with at least five other gallopers, dogs even we'd like to know, they were so friendly.
In the distance Gloucester and Boston draggers chugged by apparently on their way to the fishing grounds for a chance at that valuable haddock. A sail apeared toward the horizon. And Thacher's twin lights took a breather. Yes, it was a beautiful place to be.
Missing was the picturesque gnarled oak timber sticking out from the sand a year ago, the ribs of some ill-fated fishing boat of a half century ago. We saw that the seas had restored much sand to the beach. After that terrific blow of April 1958 that felled two huge sections of the seawall, the beach was gouged out in some areas.
Great piles of grout lining the beach as riprap for the wall, young America discovered, made a real playland for climbing and hide-and-seek. Danger of the heavy granite sliding from beneath them didn't seem to bother them one bit.
J.P.C., Jr.
There is nothing more barren looking than a summer resort area early in Spring. With buds a-popping, grass beginning to green, and a perfectly mild day, the boarded-up cottages with no sign of life within resemble tombs. What a contrast to the sparkle of midsummer!
There were signs of life as we approached the beach. Off in a parking lot were dads and sons opening the baseball season. It was the kind of fraternizing that keeps the sons' confidence through the years. And it's a great cure for juvenile delinquency.
What interested us, as it must have more than 50 others noted along the beach lanes, was the status of the brand new seawall that Builder Joseph Perry and his men from New Bedford are constructing. We can report that they are making grand progress. Large sections of it are already done. The section near Gloucester is all done except for replacing the metal rails and stairways. Yet to be done are sections toward the Rockport end.
They tell us that two Gloucestermen, Curtis Clark and Louis Houle, came close to death last Thursday while working on the wall construction. The 36-foot wooden form, eight feet high and four feet wide, into which the concrete is poured, fell over on them. Fortunately it pinned them into yielding sand instead of onto ledge. A large gang of workers rushed over and by sheer brute strength succeeded in lifting the form enough so the two could wriggle out. There wasn't time to get the hoist alongside. Only injury reported was a bruised arm for Clark.
The wife recalled that a half century ago her folks had a cottage at this beach and observed that some of the places hadn't changed a bit. There are fewer weathervanes and flagpoles displayed than in the past. The "architecture" is the same helter-skelter type, just as the summer folks drop clothes fashions once they come through the toll gate road.
The tide was low, the surf foamy but musical. The sand was that hardness that horses love. One young man was giving his horse a gallop up and down the entire strand. That was right up Molly's alley. She tried her speed with that of the horse, and darned if she didn't overtake the fine looking equine and stay with her for quite a distance. But it sure winded that boxer.
We used to cuss people who let their dogs run on the beaches. But now we see it from the other side of the fence. Of course we know that the old gal can't have her freedom in the bathing season, but during the winter and spring what better place to let 'em streak? She was quick to rub noses, or whatever dogs do to get acquainted, with at least five other gallopers, dogs even we'd like to know, they were so friendly.
In the distance Gloucester and Boston draggers chugged by apparently on their way to the fishing grounds for a chance at that valuable haddock. A sail apeared toward the horizon. And Thacher's twin lights took a breather. Yes, it was a beautiful place to be.
Missing was the picturesque gnarled oak timber sticking out from the sand a year ago, the ribs of some ill-fated fishing boat of a half century ago. We saw that the seas had restored much sand to the beach. After that terrific blow of April 1958 that felled two huge sections of the seawall, the beach was gouged out in some areas.
Great piles of grout lining the beach as riprap for the wall, young America discovered, made a real playland for climbing and hide-and-seek. Danger of the heavy granite sliding from beneath them didn't seem to bother them one bit.
J.P.C., Jr.
Saturday, November 14, 2009
A Walk Up Squam Hill to Haskins
Because of the press of affairs, the wife and I and our foul-faced but good-natured boxer Mollie had to effect our Sunday stroll in two stanzas. A short drive from our School Street manse through the center of town took us to Squam Hill, to park
As we passed the property of Mrs. Joseph E. Critchett on Granite Street, we recalled her attractive garden of every summer that with a backward Spring had not blossomed. There were indications, however.
Mollie was already on digging bent, upturning the turf as if she were a backhoe trying to cheat a contractor out of a job. Pigeons rescued her attention as she made one fruitless lunge, only to see them soar skyward as she huffed and puffed as a four-year-old should. We enjoyed the sight of the ancestral home of the late Louis Rogers on Granite Street with its brand new blinds painted greenish blue and its roof and chimney top brightened in repair. Beyond was a spacious view of the ocean in all its deep blue and quiet without the sight of a sail or of a vessel of steam marring its tranquility. Peace of Spring had finally come to Sandy Bay.
For the first time in 1961, the wife and I heard the joyous song of peepers coming as usual from nowhere. These were sounds that thrilled our youngsters from baby days as we rode them across Nugent's Stretch in the Springtime. Even as they neared maturity at this time of year they reached hungrily for this sound of life reborn. It is another of freedom's calls.
Hiking up Squam Hill we were greeted by a puffed up robin red-breast, trees in bloom and a sweep of rocks and trees blended in a ghastly gray softened by darkish lichen clinging to the boulders. Thence up a steep and slippery hill to pause for a moment at a gurgling brook that winds in and out around the rocks and sings to you, come and cool your bare feet. All around it are lilies of the valley coming to life after a winter's hibernation.
The same blitheness ran through the scene as did that of the morning memory of our good young friend Teddy Cooper Sunday as he proudly displayed his brand new Sprite at the Sandy Bay Yacht Club wharf. Fibreglass, he said, it was made of. We should doubt him?
From here into a road full of potholes to twist a sensitive ankle which ours wasn't, then up an un-named path lacking of houses. We had reached Walter Tuck's domain, where he had reformed a once Socialist meeting hall into a candy emporium. In the clearing he trimmed out underbrush and left majestic pines.
Rough hewn stone walls dating back to our sires who founded the land greeted us. The wife and I can never get enough of this historic grandeur of Cape Ann and our four-footer can never get too much of bounding over them to nuzzle into the bracken searching out the strange smells of the past and the present. Above us are apt to be reminders of the current age, jets stamping out the puffy white trails of their modernism miles in the yonder.
As we climbed that slippery hill into Haskins Land, we had brought to mind similar walks with our two young'uns of another day when they raced ahead of us. We knew they would have been the first to reach newly painted settees at the top of the hill, restless for a real breath of summer to get them to Dock Square, to Old Garden Beach and other comfy places.
We finally came to Haskins Land at the top of the hill that oversees the whole of Sandy Bay and our town, a town from which the wife and I and Mollie never want to part.
J.P.C., Jr.
As we passed the property of Mrs. Joseph E. Critchett on Granite Street, we recalled her attractive garden of every summer that with a backward Spring had not blossomed. There were indications, however.
Mollie was already on digging bent, upturning the turf as if she were a backhoe trying to cheat a contractor out of a job. Pigeons rescued her attention as she made one fruitless lunge, only to see them soar skyward as she huffed and puffed as a four-year-old should. We enjoyed the sight of the ancestral home of the late Louis Rogers on Granite Street with its brand new blinds painted greenish blue and its roof and chimney top brightened in repair. Beyond was a spacious view of the ocean in all its deep blue and quiet without the sight of a sail or of a vessel of steam marring its tranquility. Peace of Spring had finally come to Sandy Bay.
For the first time in 1961, the wife and I heard the joyous song of peepers coming as usual from nowhere. These were sounds that thrilled our youngsters from baby days as we rode them across Nugent's Stretch in the Springtime. Even as they neared maturity at this time of year they reached hungrily for this sound of life reborn. It is another of freedom's calls.
Hiking up Squam Hill we were greeted by a puffed up robin red-breast, trees in bloom and a sweep of rocks and trees blended in a ghastly gray softened by darkish lichen clinging to the boulders. Thence up a steep and slippery hill to pause for a moment at a gurgling brook that winds in and out around the rocks and sings to you, come and cool your bare feet. All around it are lilies of the valley coming to life after a winter's hibernation.
The same blitheness ran through the scene as did that of the morning memory of our good young friend Teddy Cooper Sunday as he proudly displayed his brand new Sprite at the Sandy Bay Yacht Club wharf. Fibreglass, he said, it was made of. We should doubt him?
From here into a road full of potholes to twist a sensitive ankle which ours wasn't, then up an un-named path lacking of houses. We had reached Walter Tuck's domain, where he had reformed a once Socialist meeting hall into a candy emporium. In the clearing he trimmed out underbrush and left majestic pines.
Rough hewn stone walls dating back to our sires who founded the land greeted us. The wife and I can never get enough of this historic grandeur of Cape Ann and our four-footer can never get too much of bounding over them to nuzzle into the bracken searching out the strange smells of the past and the present. Above us are apt to be reminders of the current age, jets stamping out the puffy white trails of their modernism miles in the yonder.
As we climbed that slippery hill into Haskins Land, we had brought to mind similar walks with our two young'uns of another day when they raced ahead of us. We knew they would have been the first to reach newly painted settees at the top of the hill, restless for a real breath of summer to get them to Dock Square, to Old Garden Beach and other comfy places.
We finally came to Haskins Land at the top of the hill that oversees the whole of Sandy Bay and our town, a town from which the wife and I and Mollie never want to part.
J.P.C., Jr.
A Walk With The Wind - Cape Pond Ice
After all, it was a mighty strong and frigid breeze whipping all over the place Sunday and you just can't blame the wife and me if we voted unanimously to cut short our walk. That's why with our four-footed she-devil Molly, we gassed up Broadway and Main Street to the headwaters of Cape Pond.
Parking the four-wheeler before the majestic stone gates of another period, that of the late nineteenth, we dismounted to buck the Arctic blast to enter the path. Elegant stone wall and impressive granite gates are a throwback to an imperial age. We thought we were entering an Astorial estate and expected at any moment to see Great Danes come bounding down the road. That, Molly would have loved to see. There's been hamburger ground before our watering orbs.
Inside, a tawdry sign screamed "No trespassing by order of Water Department." But who can read signs on a Sunday stroll? To our right was the controversial town garage that began as a heatless, sans-convenience resting place, for town trucks, et cetera. The design is pleasing, the space within ample, but the tenants were too few for economy. A peek inside revealed the town grader,the sweeper, a truck of the water department. That left over two-thirds of the space vacant. Surely, the town must have more equipment that could be housed in that garage. At least there is the hearse of 1836 that the public paid for.
Not caring a toss of their head about this were three young ladies, who after an effort got a kite off the ground, only to have an interfering tree latch onto it and wreck the frail thing. The kite fliers were Dianne Breakell, Paula Currier and Judy Karcher. The wind that swept it off the ground also snared it into the tree limbs. But they had fun just the same.
A look at the 60-foot standpipe showed it was installed in 1894 by the Cunningham Iron Works Co. of South Boston at the same time that the town reared a 2 and a half story wooden house nearby wherein resided the water department superintendents including the late Lewis Sanborn, and afterward the present super, Matt Hautala. We can't help but think that the town had a pretty good deal letting the super live there rent free but at a reduced salary. But the super is happier owning his own home, with no one to tell him when and where he can hang a picture in the house, or add on a closet for his books.
Continuing down the hot[topped road, with Molly ferreting out new smells, sniffing the ozone for scent of new friends or foes, we descended the rounding hill to come upon one of the most beautiful sights in Rockport, spacious winding tree-bordered Cape Pond. Off in the distance the pond was girt by stately dark green lines, while in the foreground were pale ashen grays of wintered trees along the shimmering banks.
The wind-rippled deep blue waters showed an extensive open expanse that far off in the narrows was white-coated in ice, as it was just to the port side of us. Back to us came the memory of hundreds of Cape Anners swaddling in winter garments, guiding horse-drawn ice cutters harvesting a crop for the Abbotts to be bought by the Gloucester fishing boats or stored for household use. 'Member those ice cards with the big black figures, 25, 50, 75, 100, which you turned to tell the ice man how many pounds you wanted ice-tong'ed into your ice chest? That was when the ice man cometh without sin.
And right alongside us, skipping with a song down the hillside was the brook from nowhere, or probably more truthfully from Elliott Rogers' land of Dogtown babbling into the pond. It was a friendly brook, just a-walking with us that Sunday afternoon.
Then down to the pond itself right beside the old pumping station, electrically operated. Beside it stands a 60-foot brick chimney as useless as a Trojan horse. It was all the rage in the days of the steam boilers. And just as out of place is a wooden coal bunker right beside it. So, too, a weird looking shed cover to a hydrant in the vicinity. Atop the shed is a spiked adornment that was probably the last word when gas lights were a-sputtering.
The walk was hardly a distance worth noting, but for the smashing Arctic blasts. But for the family pooch, it was not without its triumphs. On the way back to the car, she had her golden opportunity to snout out three other mutts with whom she exchanged excited tail waggings with two, and a stiff upper lip with the third. Only a wire fence saved the fur from flying, and our town reputations as law-abiding citizens from going berserk.
J.P.C., Jr.
Parking the four-wheeler before the majestic stone gates of another period, that of the late nineteenth, we dismounted to buck the Arctic blast to enter the path. Elegant stone wall and impressive granite gates are a throwback to an imperial age. We thought we were entering an Astorial estate and expected at any moment to see Great Danes come bounding down the road. That, Molly would have loved to see. There's been hamburger ground before our watering orbs.
Inside, a tawdry sign screamed "No trespassing by order of Water Department." But who can read signs on a Sunday stroll? To our right was the controversial town garage that began as a heatless, sans-convenience resting place, for town trucks, et cetera. The design is pleasing, the space within ample, but the tenants were too few for economy. A peek inside revealed the town grader,the sweeper, a truck of the water department. That left over two-thirds of the space vacant. Surely, the town must have more equipment that could be housed in that garage. At least there is the hearse of 1836 that the public paid for.
Not caring a toss of their head about this were three young ladies, who after an effort got a kite off the ground, only to have an interfering tree latch onto it and wreck the frail thing. The kite fliers were Dianne Breakell, Paula Currier and Judy Karcher. The wind that swept it off the ground also snared it into the tree limbs. But they had fun just the same.
A look at the 60-foot standpipe showed it was installed in 1894 by the Cunningham Iron Works Co. of South Boston at the same time that the town reared a 2 and a half story wooden house nearby wherein resided the water department superintendents including the late Lewis Sanborn, and afterward the present super, Matt Hautala. We can't help but think that the town had a pretty good deal letting the super live there rent free but at a reduced salary. But the super is happier owning his own home, with no one to tell him when and where he can hang a picture in the house, or add on a closet for his books.
Continuing down the hot[topped road, with Molly ferreting out new smells, sniffing the ozone for scent of new friends or foes, we descended the rounding hill to come upon one of the most beautiful sights in Rockport, spacious winding tree-bordered Cape Pond. Off in the distance the pond was girt by stately dark green lines, while in the foreground were pale ashen grays of wintered trees along the shimmering banks.
The wind-rippled deep blue waters showed an extensive open expanse that far off in the narrows was white-coated in ice, as it was just to the port side of us. Back to us came the memory of hundreds of Cape Anners swaddling in winter garments, guiding horse-drawn ice cutters harvesting a crop for the Abbotts to be bought by the Gloucester fishing boats or stored for household use. 'Member those ice cards with the big black figures, 25, 50, 75, 100, which you turned to tell the ice man how many pounds you wanted ice-tong'ed into your ice chest? That was when the ice man cometh without sin.
And right alongside us, skipping with a song down the hillside was the brook from nowhere, or probably more truthfully from Elliott Rogers' land of Dogtown babbling into the pond. It was a friendly brook, just a-walking with us that Sunday afternoon.
Then down to the pond itself right beside the old pumping station, electrically operated. Beside it stands a 60-foot brick chimney as useless as a Trojan horse. It was all the rage in the days of the steam boilers. And just as out of place is a wooden coal bunker right beside it. So, too, a weird looking shed cover to a hydrant in the vicinity. Atop the shed is a spiked adornment that was probably the last word when gas lights were a-sputtering.
The walk was hardly a distance worth noting, but for the smashing Arctic blasts. But for the family pooch, it was not without its triumphs. On the way back to the car, she had her golden opportunity to snout out three other mutts with whom she exchanged excited tail waggings with two, and a stiff upper lip with the third. Only a wire fence saved the fur from flying, and our town reputations as law-abiding citizens from going berserk.
J.P.C., Jr.
Friday, November 13, 2009
March - Broadway and Beyond
Excuse please! We're a-trying to catch up with our Sunday walks. So that the intervening return of winter snows won't fool you, this was a perambulation taken on March 9, it was Spring- like then, before snow blotted out the crocus buds. There are no walks like those in Sandy Bay. And we have two inveterate around-the-town daily hikers, "Babe" Grace, retired telephone mogul and his missus, to prove it.
Up Broadway we strolled and the first blot on the horizon was that measly little cannon in its all too modern cement casement still resting in the scant space beside the new town office building. Historic, yes. Fitting? well, we have our doots, as the Irisher might say. A statue to John Henry Dennis, exemplar of town government, might be far more to the point. Cannons are destructionists. Old John Henry was a builder, cantankerous as he might have been.
Quieting our ruffled nerves was a darling little gal in blue astride a miniature blue bicycle awhirl in the joy of an early Spring and all we could think of was good old Browning and his "God's in His Heaven, all's well with the world". We were back on the joy of a hike. Children can do so much to unsnarl the fretting of age.
A glance at the blacktop and sure enough, you couldn't see the road for the buzz-wagons. They were a-whizzin' down and a whizzin'-up, with nary an idea where they were heading and seeing nothing of the day's beauty. To us they were just gas-happy. And we envied them not a bit. We are sure they didn't see the home-town postmaster, Ralph Wilson, gloating over his grandchild, who in her carriage had captured the keys to Uncle Sam's mail dispensary and was determined in her girlish way never to give them up. J. Edgar himself couldn't have solved this one. We forgot to check if the Rockport post office opened the next day.
Five corners was as frantic as ever. Without a traffic cop, the flow depends largely on the "give-and-take" of the motorists. And who gives when behind that futuramic metal wheel? Our sympathy was out to Gloucester's City Auditor Kenneth Simpson Webber and his good frau Katy, who were caught in the swirl. And by the by, that is actually Dwight Dutton Square, named for a World War I hero, in case you never heard.
We paused to watch Gillie Everett busy working on his greenhouse on Agawam Lane, named for an Indian tribe long extinct. He was wielding a whitewasher with vigorous swabs. Spring does that to the more ambitious. But not to us who have no "do-it-yourself" inhibitions.
All through this stroll we couldn't escape from the fact that here in the sacred season of Lent, a mildness pervaded the atmosphere that gave zest to every step. It also convinced us all the more that every man-jack ensconced within a heated car was cheating himself or herself of the inspiration of being on foot. It is hard to believe that mechanism has robbed folks of the will to walk and see rather than ride and miss all the glories of leisurely ambling to pass the time of day with folks you know and respect.
Down past the Building Center that used to be a garage. There was the appealing announcement of how to win a bike. Great thought, for it means that some youngster is bound to be made happy and will forever remember that establishment as a wee bit of heaven. Would that more business emporiums would give a thought to childhood. It would make more than their cash registers ring happy tones.
There before us were 20th century sleds which on the balmy day appeared out of tune with the world. A mere matter of seven days brought the thought more into focus. March never lets us down when it comes to flaky treatment.
A glance at Evans Field, Hibbard-land, left us no doubt that winter remained, for there was no cries of harassed coaches or scenes of foul balls hurdling the fences and youngsters having a gay time searching for the pellets in the tall grass.
Along came Bill Reed, one of the town fathers, a perennial in town hall, on a Sunday ride a-wondering when we were going to invade the precincts of Pigeon Cove to describe his glorious walks. The Cove always appealed to us as out of America. Maybe we'll try it sometime. Right behind was Al Brown, the tax collector, extolling the virtues of Squam Hill for a stroll. But they say they grow the canines man-size up there in the hills. And we still own only that lone Sunday suit.
Around the Mill Pond, we noted a thin coating of ice, forbidding to skaters. And adacent to Architect Herb Murphy's chatelier by that pond we espied an old-fashioned "privy." That in the old days was an air-conditioned lavatory that often cooled us in the middle of the night -- and made a man of us!
The picturesque brook was running fiercely into the mirrored pond and again we felt at peace with the world. Such glimpses are what make walks worthwhile.
To climax it all, we met up with an ardent nativve, Beano Evans, and had with him the kind of chit-chat that swells our pride in old Rockport as against the invasion of the past score of years. The old town pump was a-quiverin'!
J.P.C., Jr.
Up Broadway we strolled and the first blot on the horizon was that measly little cannon in its all too modern cement casement still resting in the scant space beside the new town office building. Historic, yes. Fitting? well, we have our doots, as the Irisher might say. A statue to John Henry Dennis, exemplar of town government, might be far more to the point. Cannons are destructionists. Old John Henry was a builder, cantankerous as he might have been.
Quieting our ruffled nerves was a darling little gal in blue astride a miniature blue bicycle awhirl in the joy of an early Spring and all we could think of was good old Browning and his "God's in His Heaven, all's well with the world". We were back on the joy of a hike. Children can do so much to unsnarl the fretting of age.
A glance at the blacktop and sure enough, you couldn't see the road for the buzz-wagons. They were a-whizzin' down and a whizzin'-up, with nary an idea where they were heading and seeing nothing of the day's beauty. To us they were just gas-happy. And we envied them not a bit. We are sure they didn't see the home-town postmaster, Ralph Wilson, gloating over his grandchild, who in her carriage had captured the keys to Uncle Sam's mail dispensary and was determined in her girlish way never to give them up. J. Edgar himself couldn't have solved this one. We forgot to check if the Rockport post office opened the next day.
Five corners was as frantic as ever. Without a traffic cop, the flow depends largely on the "give-and-take" of the motorists. And who gives when behind that futuramic metal wheel? Our sympathy was out to Gloucester's City Auditor Kenneth Simpson Webber and his good frau Katy, who were caught in the swirl. And by the by, that is actually Dwight Dutton Square, named for a World War I hero, in case you never heard.
We paused to watch Gillie Everett busy working on his greenhouse on Agawam Lane, named for an Indian tribe long extinct. He was wielding a whitewasher with vigorous swabs. Spring does that to the more ambitious. But not to us who have no "do-it-yourself" inhibitions.
All through this stroll we couldn't escape from the fact that here in the sacred season of Lent, a mildness pervaded the atmosphere that gave zest to every step. It also convinced us all the more that every man-jack ensconced within a heated car was cheating himself or herself of the inspiration of being on foot. It is hard to believe that mechanism has robbed folks of the will to walk and see rather than ride and miss all the glories of leisurely ambling to pass the time of day with folks you know and respect.
Down past the Building Center that used to be a garage. There was the appealing announcement of how to win a bike. Great thought, for it means that some youngster is bound to be made happy and will forever remember that establishment as a wee bit of heaven. Would that more business emporiums would give a thought to childhood. It would make more than their cash registers ring happy tones.
There before us were 20th century sleds which on the balmy day appeared out of tune with the world. A mere matter of seven days brought the thought more into focus. March never lets us down when it comes to flaky treatment.
A glance at Evans Field, Hibbard-land, left us no doubt that winter remained, for there was no cries of harassed coaches or scenes of foul balls hurdling the fences and youngsters having a gay time searching for the pellets in the tall grass.
Along came Bill Reed, one of the town fathers, a perennial in town hall, on a Sunday ride a-wondering when we were going to invade the precincts of Pigeon Cove to describe his glorious walks. The Cove always appealed to us as out of America. Maybe we'll try it sometime. Right behind was Al Brown, the tax collector, extolling the virtues of Squam Hill for a stroll. But they say they grow the canines man-size up there in the hills. And we still own only that lone Sunday suit.
Around the Mill Pond, we noted a thin coating of ice, forbidding to skaters. And adacent to Architect Herb Murphy's chatelier by that pond we espied an old-fashioned "privy." That in the old days was an air-conditioned lavatory that often cooled us in the middle of the night -- and made a man of us!
The picturesque brook was running fiercely into the mirrored pond and again we felt at peace with the world. Such glimpses are what make walks worthwhile.
To climax it all, we met up with an ardent nativve, Beano Evans, and had with him the kind of chit-chat that swells our pride in old Rockport as against the invasion of the past score of years. The old town pump was a-quiverin'!
J.P.C., Jr.
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
A Walk With a Scent to the Golf Club
The day was bright and nippy, a March Sunday that breathed life into those who like to stroll. The wife and I and the boxer, Molly, chose to invade the precincts of the Rockport Golf Club for a brisk shorty. Our immediate goal was the statuesque old haybarn on South Street.
This was a part of Rockport past when conscientious workmen built structures to stand for all time. As we approached it, the staunch building was practically denuded, with just the thick timbers remaining. Those timbers could have supported a Manhattan skyscraper and were as rugged today as they were in the 19th century. But most outstanding was the magnificent wide fireplace of sapstone and red brick smack dab in the center, an extra installed by the late Billy Presnal after he bought it for a studio home. We recall that after he left it vandals wrecked his choice collection of books, and raccoons took possession. Now comes the end, with only the timbers, the inviting fireplace and the crowning glory, the cupola.
We wandered down through Country Club Lane to eye the golf club and greens in winter. The greens were seered, the temperature hardly 30 above, but three sturdy pill swishers were making a day of it, sans caddies, sans fear.
Disquieting was the fact we were walking with a scent. Somewhere in the brush, Molly had found a challenge two nights before. To us that means a cat. But in this case it was a mee-ow with a white stripe down its ebony back. And that "cat" had plenty of pressure. Molly got the whole forty-four. Hope it never happens to you. For two full days we had lived with a scent that even Chanel Number Five could not erase.
Just what do you do with a mutt so bathed? If we were so caught, we could easily bury our clothes. But should you bury a pedicgreed boxer? Realizing something was wrong, Molly made it worse by trying to stay close. Both of us had our own ideas and had sought to give her a wide berth.
On this stroll who should come along but an authority on wild-life, Roger "Left Field" Edwards, the Gloucester city councillor, who has for some time been studying underworld activities in the Fish Town railroad station. Roger's first thought was that we should lease Molly to the B and M to ferret out the "mystery monster."
Roger was looking for a chance to fill out a foursome around the links. STrangely enough, he did just that, with three good Rockport citizens which made him promptly forget that "better 'ole" in Gloucester, and left us flat with our eerie problem.
One thing about it, Molly escaped, though she invited any scraps with fellow dogs. Their bark was tamer than their olefactory nerves, for they backed away right smart as they got to leeward. We did our best to concentrate on the approaching spring scenery, admired the many new trees dotting the links, the grandiose view to sea with a smoking coal barge pushing slowly through the cold blue waters of the Atlantic, the vista of a growing Rockport hitting toward the 5,000 mark in population, the deep-throated whirr of model planes being flown in the distance.
Keeping the wind in our favor as Molly slunk in shame, we enjoyed the fantastic sight of two solid stone posts with a ponderous wrought iron gate between fronting a South Street estate where the complete fence had long since vanished. It was a page from Mack Sennett's old comedies.
The walk ended. Abjectly the boxer again entered the family mansion. She cuddled in her basket bed. The house again took on a "fragrance" that threatened to drive us all back to the high road for a further jaunt. We sought expert counsel. Never had we properly appreciated the virtues of tomato juice as applied externally. A thorough bath in this pungency did much to soften the results of the encounter with one "cat" that just provved too much for our Molly. By nightfall, we were ready to re-install her into our family circle--dis-scented. But it was a trial!
J.P.C., Jr.
This was a part of Rockport past when conscientious workmen built structures to stand for all time. As we approached it, the staunch building was practically denuded, with just the thick timbers remaining. Those timbers could have supported a Manhattan skyscraper and were as rugged today as they were in the 19th century. But most outstanding was the magnificent wide fireplace of sapstone and red brick smack dab in the center, an extra installed by the late Billy Presnal after he bought it for a studio home. We recall that after he left it vandals wrecked his choice collection of books, and raccoons took possession. Now comes the end, with only the timbers, the inviting fireplace and the crowning glory, the cupola.
We wandered down through Country Club Lane to eye the golf club and greens in winter. The greens were seered, the temperature hardly 30 above, but three sturdy pill swishers were making a day of it, sans caddies, sans fear.
Disquieting was the fact we were walking with a scent. Somewhere in the brush, Molly had found a challenge two nights before. To us that means a cat. But in this case it was a mee-ow with a white stripe down its ebony back. And that "cat" had plenty of pressure. Molly got the whole forty-four. Hope it never happens to you. For two full days we had lived with a scent that even Chanel Number Five could not erase.
Just what do you do with a mutt so bathed? If we were so caught, we could easily bury our clothes. But should you bury a pedicgreed boxer? Realizing something was wrong, Molly made it worse by trying to stay close. Both of us had our own ideas and had sought to give her a wide berth.
On this stroll who should come along but an authority on wild-life, Roger "Left Field" Edwards, the Gloucester city councillor, who has for some time been studying underworld activities in the Fish Town railroad station. Roger's first thought was that we should lease Molly to the B and M to ferret out the "mystery monster."
Roger was looking for a chance to fill out a foursome around the links. STrangely enough, he did just that, with three good Rockport citizens which made him promptly forget that "better 'ole" in Gloucester, and left us flat with our eerie problem.
One thing about it, Molly escaped, though she invited any scraps with fellow dogs. Their bark was tamer than their olefactory nerves, for they backed away right smart as they got to leeward. We did our best to concentrate on the approaching spring scenery, admired the many new trees dotting the links, the grandiose view to sea with a smoking coal barge pushing slowly through the cold blue waters of the Atlantic, the vista of a growing Rockport hitting toward the 5,000 mark in population, the deep-throated whirr of model planes being flown in the distance.
Keeping the wind in our favor as Molly slunk in shame, we enjoyed the fantastic sight of two solid stone posts with a ponderous wrought iron gate between fronting a South Street estate where the complete fence had long since vanished. It was a page from Mack Sennett's old comedies.
The walk ended. Abjectly the boxer again entered the family mansion. She cuddled in her basket bed. The house again took on a "fragrance" that threatened to drive us all back to the high road for a further jaunt. We sought expert counsel. Never had we properly appreciated the virtues of tomato juice as applied externally. A thorough bath in this pungency did much to soften the results of the encounter with one "cat" that just provved too much for our Molly. By nightfall, we were ready to re-install her into our family circle--dis-scented. But it was a trial!
J.P.C., Jr.
Leash Cramps Style on Sunday Walk
Our streak of dynamite Molly on a leash on a Sunday stroll? Perish the thought and all who would vote for a dog leash by-law in Rockport. That was our first reaction of a glorious Sunday in March, to a proposed edict by the selectmen.
But even if we do say it ourselves, the wife and I, long of old Rockport, have down through the years been sticklers for keeping in step with old Johnny Law, even to driving on the right side of the road. So we chose to see how a Sunday stroll could be with the boxer at the end of a leather strap in a thickly settled part of the town. We chose King Street, Granite Street end, and on this reverent day of Palms.
To be perfectly frank, the old man looked like Billy-be-damned holding onto the leather with Molly panting, gasping, and straining at the other end. We could hear Molly growling in dog lingo, "S'help me, I'll chew this rawhide to bits unless that potbellied jackanapes releases me. I've got a lot of yards to nose around, a lot of bushy-tails to tree. Wot happened to honest old Abe?"
Near the town pump, from which a Rockport native will say you must drink to become a full fledged townie, we saw a neighbor who made a remark, "As long as you live on King Street, you'll never die, " said he.
The three of us hay-footed straw-footed down Holbrook Court, that horseshoe way. We halted at the house of Rapp, Bob and Delores. Inasmuch as no spit-spit feline lolled by their fireside, we offed the leash and let Molly loose. Through the windows we saw pussywillows intertwined in gnarled trees, terraced steps of railroad ties and gravel down to the old Mill Pond. In the windows were bottles of all sizes and descriptions from many artisans.
Out again in the Springish air, we tried our 5-pound boxer on the leash and all of a sudden we awoke to the realization that in this, civilized folk expect to bottle up an intelligent animal who breathes fire. We pictured ourselves tethered on the wrong end of that leash, led like an unthinking idiot through the byways of the town. We could see her friends nosing up to us to say hello and how are you.
And all of a sudden, we caught the other end of the picture. We, stuffed and plus-sixtieth, grounded on the leash, bobtail furiously wagging, puffing away as we caught at myriads of smells, trapped in a canine's world that condemned us to leashed servitude. Our answer! As good old Patrick Henry once said in Rebel land. Give me liberty or give me death. Before us Clarks will leash our Molly, we'll leash ourselves and let our four-footer lead us through Rockport's streets. To that, say we Amen.
J.P.C., Jr.
NOTE: Today's Clark, however, does leash her feisty mini dachshund, not just to keep in step with old Johnny Law, but to keep the dashing dachsie safe!
But even if we do say it ourselves, the wife and I, long of old Rockport, have down through the years been sticklers for keeping in step with old Johnny Law, even to driving on the right side of the road. So we chose to see how a Sunday stroll could be with the boxer at the end of a leather strap in a thickly settled part of the town. We chose King Street, Granite Street end, and on this reverent day of Palms.
To be perfectly frank, the old man looked like Billy-be-damned holding onto the leather with Molly panting, gasping, and straining at the other end. We could hear Molly growling in dog lingo, "S'help me, I'll chew this rawhide to bits unless that potbellied jackanapes releases me. I've got a lot of yards to nose around, a lot of bushy-tails to tree. Wot happened to honest old Abe?"
Near the town pump, from which a Rockport native will say you must drink to become a full fledged townie, we saw a neighbor who made a remark, "As long as you live on King Street, you'll never die, " said he.
The three of us hay-footed straw-footed down Holbrook Court, that horseshoe way. We halted at the house of Rapp, Bob and Delores. Inasmuch as no spit-spit feline lolled by their fireside, we offed the leash and let Molly loose. Through the windows we saw pussywillows intertwined in gnarled trees, terraced steps of railroad ties and gravel down to the old Mill Pond. In the windows were bottles of all sizes and descriptions from many artisans.
Out again in the Springish air, we tried our 5-pound boxer on the leash and all of a sudden we awoke to the realization that in this, civilized folk expect to bottle up an intelligent animal who breathes fire. We pictured ourselves tethered on the wrong end of that leash, led like an unthinking idiot through the byways of the town. We could see her friends nosing up to us to say hello and how are you.
And all of a sudden, we caught the other end of the picture. We, stuffed and plus-sixtieth, grounded on the leash, bobtail furiously wagging, puffing away as we caught at myriads of smells, trapped in a canine's world that condemned us to leashed servitude. Our answer! As good old Patrick Henry once said in Rebel land. Give me liberty or give me death. Before us Clarks will leash our Molly, we'll leash ourselves and let our four-footer lead us through Rockport's streets. To that, say we Amen.
J.P.C., Jr.
NOTE: Today's Clark, however, does leash her feisty mini dachshund, not just to keep in step with old Johnny Law, but to keep the dashing dachsie safe!
Monday, November 9, 2009
March on Long Beach
This Rockport wife and husband combination decided to vary its Sunday stroll around the streets of town by motoring to Long Beach to walk along its wintry strand. The beach has sure changed down through the years since Gloucester disdained to claim it and thereby Rockport succeeded to a gold mine. First thing we spotted was a new and ample house being built on the sands to the rear. Another new one had a big "for rent" sign, noting it also could be bought.
Long Beach is a warm and lively place through the summer months. There was none of that this brittle March Sunday. Yet it was far from lacking in appeal. We saw many visiting their cottages as if longing for the weeks to pass so that they could abandon their winter homes for the joys of their summer residence.
Most forlorn-looking establishment was behind the sign "Cocktails". Although the beach is perhaps two-thirds in Rockport, this place is located at the Gloucester end. It was a post-Prohibition innovation.
The rich and vibrant smell of the angered sea was welcomed. That and the background of Thacher's twin lights, one blacked out for years, reminded us of post cards we had back home.
Among those cards of a half century ago was one showing the little theater located where that cocktail sign is. We had nostalgic recollections of that theater, for if my memory serves us right we as as kids enjoyed hearing Clark's Military Band led by Ben Clark and the Acoriana Band whose leader we forget. Both gave Sunday band concerts that thrilled thousands.
The open electric cars did a land office business then. Big treat to the young fry was a front seat in an open car bumping over the wooden trestle from Bass Avenue to the Beach pavilion. It was sure worth the nickel (starting from the Main Street Waiting Station), and then some.
We noted a lot of people probing the rocks at the Gloucester end. We thought at first it was for the sea moss, only to learn they were collecting hen clams for the supper table. Most were from out of town -- the people, not the clams. Washed up on the beach by the blizzard were lobster pots, some of which must have come from quite a distance.
We got up onto the cement wall that goes the length of the beach in front of the cottages and was built by Rockport over a quarter century ago to keep tremendous seas from destroying the cottages. It must have been well built, considering its condition today.
The wife spotted the camp where her family stayed for many a summer in the old days. It was down toward the Gloucester end. In those days, a camp had a living room, one bedroom and a kitchen. Now the new ones are like year-round homes. Traces of board walks of old can still be seen. As a child, there was the extra thrill of jumping from them into the sand.
The breakers added much to that beach walk. It was a real good show, more so because there was no danger to us. Sheer white foam splashed over the shore rocks, spent itself, and returned in rushing rivulets to the sea. We were about half way along when we met up with Frank McLaughlin, his wife and mother. Frank is an official at the Gloucester Post Office. He has a camp there. He had been gathering hen clams. We visited with them and found his camp substantial in size, just right, and in one room, heat going. Frank says he is winterizing it so that when he retires in a few years they can live in the camp six months a year and in Florida for the remainng six months. Happy, happy thought.
About in front of his camp, the bones of an old wreck protruded from the sands. Not much was left, but enough to please an artist after a shore scene linking the past with the present, and to fire the imagination of youth in their daily games. By this time, as we emerged from the cottage warmth, we could see the gulls had descended on the frigid stretch and were rivalling the humans after hen clams. One bold winner had captured a clam and was soaring off with his find. Right behind him was a screeching squad hoping to get in on the kill.
They tell us that on Salt Island is an actual lake, fresh water, of course. We believe this is the island where a movie company, the silent variety, staked out a locale away, away back and with a fellow named Panzer in command, staged chapters of the "The Thirteenth Bride," a thriller that left the audience hanging on the edge of their uncomfortable chairs as the chapter came to a close with the exasperating three little words, "Continued Next Week".
That is a wee bit of Long Beach of the past and of the present, perhaps a more interesting past than a present. But that also may be we are getting old. Anyway it was a nice diversion for a winter walk.
J.P.C., Jr.
Long Beach is a warm and lively place through the summer months. There was none of that this brittle March Sunday. Yet it was far from lacking in appeal. We saw many visiting their cottages as if longing for the weeks to pass so that they could abandon their winter homes for the joys of their summer residence.
Most forlorn-looking establishment was behind the sign "Cocktails". Although the beach is perhaps two-thirds in Rockport, this place is located at the Gloucester end. It was a post-Prohibition innovation.
The rich and vibrant smell of the angered sea was welcomed. That and the background of Thacher's twin lights, one blacked out for years, reminded us of post cards we had back home.
Among those cards of a half century ago was one showing the little theater located where that cocktail sign is. We had nostalgic recollections of that theater, for if my memory serves us right we as as kids enjoyed hearing Clark's Military Band led by Ben Clark and the Acoriana Band whose leader we forget. Both gave Sunday band concerts that thrilled thousands.
The open electric cars did a land office business then. Big treat to the young fry was a front seat in an open car bumping over the wooden trestle from Bass Avenue to the Beach pavilion. It was sure worth the nickel (starting from the Main Street Waiting Station), and then some.
We noted a lot of people probing the rocks at the Gloucester end. We thought at first it was for the sea moss, only to learn they were collecting hen clams for the supper table. Most were from out of town -- the people, not the clams. Washed up on the beach by the blizzard were lobster pots, some of which must have come from quite a distance.
We got up onto the cement wall that goes the length of the beach in front of the cottages and was built by Rockport over a quarter century ago to keep tremendous seas from destroying the cottages. It must have been well built, considering its condition today.
The wife spotted the camp where her family stayed for many a summer in the old days. It was down toward the Gloucester end. In those days, a camp had a living room, one bedroom and a kitchen. Now the new ones are like year-round homes. Traces of board walks of old can still be seen. As a child, there was the extra thrill of jumping from them into the sand.
The breakers added much to that beach walk. It was a real good show, more so because there was no danger to us. Sheer white foam splashed over the shore rocks, spent itself, and returned in rushing rivulets to the sea. We were about half way along when we met up with Frank McLaughlin, his wife and mother. Frank is an official at the Gloucester Post Office. He has a camp there. He had been gathering hen clams. We visited with them and found his camp substantial in size, just right, and in one room, heat going. Frank says he is winterizing it so that when he retires in a few years they can live in the camp six months a year and in Florida for the remainng six months. Happy, happy thought.
About in front of his camp, the bones of an old wreck protruded from the sands. Not much was left, but enough to please an artist after a shore scene linking the past with the present, and to fire the imagination of youth in their daily games. By this time, as we emerged from the cottage warmth, we could see the gulls had descended on the frigid stretch and were rivalling the humans after hen clams. One bold winner had captured a clam and was soaring off with his find. Right behind him was a screeching squad hoping to get in on the kill.
They tell us that on Salt Island is an actual lake, fresh water, of course. We believe this is the island where a movie company, the silent variety, staked out a locale away, away back and with a fellow named Panzer in command, staged chapters of the "The Thirteenth Bride," a thriller that left the audience hanging on the edge of their uncomfortable chairs as the chapter came to a close with the exasperating three little words, "Continued Next Week".
That is a wee bit of Long Beach of the past and of the present, perhaps a more interesting past than a present. But that also may be we are getting old. Anyway it was a nice diversion for a winter walk.
J.P.C., Jr.
Walk Into Winterland
You who stayed home glued to TV pro football Sunday missed living. The wife and I and our lady boxer braved the afternoon chill and headed for where we could drain the most out of Nature's early display of what's to come these dreary months ahead. And believe us, it was worth it, every moment of it.
We took an old familiar walk where the mood has changed with the season. As we left our School Street home to cross Broadway we eyed the bay to note a pale gray sea below leaden skies beyond the brilliance of snow-topped trees. We were nearing the gateway to a winter wonderland. It was like a picture postcard parade as we sauntered up School Street with snow frosted red pom-poms on bushes, and heavily togged youngsters getting their first thrill of winter in making snowballs.
Seldom have we seen so obliging a baby storm, with enough snow to crown the landscape yet leaving the roads so bare that even the most timid autoist will venture upon it. So we weren't so alarmed when the first solid citizen we met opined "28 more storms to come" basing it on the old adage that there'll be as many snows as the date on which the first one falls.
The brook was gurgling merrily beneath the snow-crushed barberry bushes. This is the same brook that steals through Mabel Woodfall's yard and finally winds up into Sandy Bay. It's a lively brook refreshed by rains. We saw our first genuine snowman of the winter. It was magnificent in Tommy Dolan's yard on School Street. He might have made it, for all we know. It certainly had "oomph" and a wee bit of Irish dignity. And it took us back quite a few years in recalling how many of such we helped to make with the aid of our young fry, and the snow tunnels we helped build and then painfully crawled through ahead of the more agile youngsters. So many times, the wife and I ask why do they have to grow up?
To our Molly, snow was not so beautiful as it was utilitarian. A new medium in which to belly-roll, snout and sniff, a field in which to smell out agile squirrels and run them up the nearest tree, hoping to catch them, but not knowing what to do with them if she ever succeeded. After all, the old gal is a softie at heart. She's just jealous of that bushy tail because they bobbed hers at birth.
A seasonal decoration on a door on the Bob Talbot house at 25 School Street was a basket with cat o' nine tails woven through the wicker and gold leaves intertwined. It brought in the harvest idea along with the Fall.
Up Pleasant Street, we came upon the town highway department's sand stockpile, where a fond daddy was showing his youngsters how to do a Robin Hood with bow and arrow. Skirting the cemetery we looked behind us to catch a background that would defy an artist's canvas. A snow-white rifted cloud bank of gray, blending into glistening crystaled bushes and trees, a solid mass of whitened pleasure that words bow in shame to describe.
And then came reality in the person of an overgrown hound dawg that apparently felt Molly was her mortal foe. They were all for tussling, but firm parent that I am, the order was given to break and for a wonder, she did. The hound, too, had had enough of such shenanigans.
It was here that we came upon our only meeting of a fellow man on this stroll through wonderland. Fire Chief Guy Thibeault was also enjoying to the fullest what the day had to bring. He was near his created pond, and woodland. In the pond were the geese and ducks he had placed there. Here the wintry background and the pond scene itself were inspirational.
The boxer dashed for the fowl, even to braving the chilled waters. But she never can get into her head that birds only have to take to the air to beat her. They did,, and all she could do was yap. Guy told us that last week two pair of Canadian geese paid him a visit and left four days later for parts unknown. He loves the area and wants to preserve it for wildlife rather than build camps along the banks of the pond. Our town can stand a lot more thinking in that direction if we are to continue Rockport as a right nice place in which to live and raise our children.
We were sorry, the wife and I, that we didn't meet you on the walk, for we are all too aware that seldom will any of us have to the chance to be in such wintry beauty of a Sunday afternoon.
J.P.C., Jr.
We took an old familiar walk where the mood has changed with the season. As we left our School Street home to cross Broadway we eyed the bay to note a pale gray sea below leaden skies beyond the brilliance of snow-topped trees. We were nearing the gateway to a winter wonderland. It was like a picture postcard parade as we sauntered up School Street with snow frosted red pom-poms on bushes, and heavily togged youngsters getting their first thrill of winter in making snowballs.
Seldom have we seen so obliging a baby storm, with enough snow to crown the landscape yet leaving the roads so bare that even the most timid autoist will venture upon it. So we weren't so alarmed when the first solid citizen we met opined "28 more storms to come" basing it on the old adage that there'll be as many snows as the date on which the first one falls.
The brook was gurgling merrily beneath the snow-crushed barberry bushes. This is the same brook that steals through Mabel Woodfall's yard and finally winds up into Sandy Bay. It's a lively brook refreshed by rains. We saw our first genuine snowman of the winter. It was magnificent in Tommy Dolan's yard on School Street. He might have made it, for all we know. It certainly had "oomph" and a wee bit of Irish dignity. And it took us back quite a few years in recalling how many of such we helped to make with the aid of our young fry, and the snow tunnels we helped build and then painfully crawled through ahead of the more agile youngsters. So many times, the wife and I ask why do they have to grow up?
To our Molly, snow was not so beautiful as it was utilitarian. A new medium in which to belly-roll, snout and sniff, a field in which to smell out agile squirrels and run them up the nearest tree, hoping to catch them, but not knowing what to do with them if she ever succeeded. After all, the old gal is a softie at heart. She's just jealous of that bushy tail because they bobbed hers at birth.
A seasonal decoration on a door on the Bob Talbot house at 25 School Street was a basket with cat o' nine tails woven through the wicker and gold leaves intertwined. It brought in the harvest idea along with the Fall.
Up Pleasant Street, we came upon the town highway department's sand stockpile, where a fond daddy was showing his youngsters how to do a Robin Hood with bow and arrow. Skirting the cemetery we looked behind us to catch a background that would defy an artist's canvas. A snow-white rifted cloud bank of gray, blending into glistening crystaled bushes and trees, a solid mass of whitened pleasure that words bow in shame to describe.
And then came reality in the person of an overgrown hound dawg that apparently felt Molly was her mortal foe. They were all for tussling, but firm parent that I am, the order was given to break and for a wonder, she did. The hound, too, had had enough of such shenanigans.
It was here that we came upon our only meeting of a fellow man on this stroll through wonderland. Fire Chief Guy Thibeault was also enjoying to the fullest what the day had to bring. He was near his created pond, and woodland. In the pond were the geese and ducks he had placed there. Here the wintry background and the pond scene itself were inspirational.
The boxer dashed for the fowl, even to braving the chilled waters. But she never can get into her head that birds only have to take to the air to beat her. They did,, and all she could do was yap. Guy told us that last week two pair of Canadian geese paid him a visit and left four days later for parts unknown. He loves the area and wants to preserve it for wildlife rather than build camps along the banks of the pond. Our town can stand a lot more thinking in that direction if we are to continue Rockport as a right nice place in which to live and raise our children.
We were sorry, the wife and I, that we didn't meet you on the walk, for we are all too aware that seldom will any of us have to the chance to be in such wintry beauty of a Sunday afternoon.
J.P.C., Jr.
February - A Walk to Henry's Pond
Apart from the thickness of snow all around, you would have thought this Sunday was the dawn of Spring. There was a definite bounce in the sun-splashed air as the wife and I and our four-footed Molly took a car-lift almost to Turk's Head Inn, Rockport, to begin the weekly stroll. Only this time, it was a rare occasion, for with us were our old-time friends, the Parker Eldridges of Pier Avenue. Parked on the far end of South Street, we set foot past the colorful gingerbread construction of the former Arey home with its widow's walk, its tiny chimney and adjacent small barn, a building fast fading out of the Sandy Bay picture.
And then it happened. A frisky overgrown black dog barrel-rolled out of a yard yapping with threat of mayhem at our not so innocent Molly. Our motto, gleaned from long experience, is that if they are of voting size, leave the pugs battle it out. Again it was more bark than battle as boy met gal.
What stood out in this this area was a clash in home architecture, for here were the conventionals of the early 20th century and before, right next door to the harsh modern ranch house type. To us, it looked healthy from a social standpoint. The neighborhood oozed personality. And a giant spruce with its tip pointing skyward heightened the picture.
One home that stood away out from all the rest was what the wife tells us is the Severy habitat with its dashing roof of green shingles, one side shaped like a witch's conical hat with two windows like eyes, and smack in the middle a slight bulge of a window. In the snow-covered yard was as nice a tree house as ever greeted us. We could see young America making the most of their handicraft.
We had come to the point where it was time to leave the hardtop and mush through an un-named lane to the sea. The snow was crunchy under foot, but not as deep, thanks to the delayed January thaw of the past few days. Ash gray bracken and thick brush grew thicker as we made our way.
Molly had the answer to licking the snow. She ate it with relish. Our friends were game. They were walkers for the love of it too. It ws the lady who exclaimed that the smell of Spring as well as seaweed was much in the February air.
Finally we came to our destination, Henry's Pond on the other side of the road that paralleled the vast ocean. The pond was fairly well frozen over, but not enough that we could let our Molly dash to its middle. So we gave the old war whoop that freezes her in her paw tracks and gets her galloping back to us.
The strange sight of thousands of flies all over part of the area despite the ice and snow-covered road seemed fantastic. Pebbles littered the way. And it was clear that the ocean had again invaded the fresh water pond, as it does winter after winter. For the first time in our many walks, we actually saw a wrecked lobster pot on the pond's ice where the blizzard must have air-lifted it across from the sea. We counted at least a dozen lobster pots strewn on the beach sands. some were in fairly good condition, others were just a mess. The ladies found a treasure of nature --colored stones on the beach. The female menace found her beach fun in a mad dash up and down the frozen strand chasing her own stub tail.
Riding the cream green sea was a full tribe of ducks minding none but their own business. A male pheasant shot from the fen into the air, flushed out by our prowler, who actually has no taste for pheasant, on the wing or off. We were about to clamber back onto the road when the wife spotted a utility wire trailing along the ground. Shocking? Hardly said our phone chief friend. It did not have as much kick as a shot of lemonade said he, so across it we slid.
Along the way we came across our friend, Henry Barletta, who proudly showed a spray of holly and bright red berries he had just picked in the neighborhood. And past a bush of red that bore the label, Cornus Alba Siberica. It was real handsome, despite the name. Against the sheer white snow, it was a picture.
That was our South End in mid-winter, as we made our way back to the car, happy with a Sunday walk that more should have enjoyed with us. Better try it sometime.
J.P.C., Jr.
And then it happened. A frisky overgrown black dog barrel-rolled out of a yard yapping with threat of mayhem at our not so innocent Molly. Our motto, gleaned from long experience, is that if they are of voting size, leave the pugs battle it out. Again it was more bark than battle as boy met gal.
What stood out in this this area was a clash in home architecture, for here were the conventionals of the early 20th century and before, right next door to the harsh modern ranch house type. To us, it looked healthy from a social standpoint. The neighborhood oozed personality. And a giant spruce with its tip pointing skyward heightened the picture.
One home that stood away out from all the rest was what the wife tells us is the Severy habitat with its dashing roof of green shingles, one side shaped like a witch's conical hat with two windows like eyes, and smack in the middle a slight bulge of a window. In the snow-covered yard was as nice a tree house as ever greeted us. We could see young America making the most of their handicraft.
We had come to the point where it was time to leave the hardtop and mush through an un-named lane to the sea. The snow was crunchy under foot, but not as deep, thanks to the delayed January thaw of the past few days. Ash gray bracken and thick brush grew thicker as we made our way.
Molly had the answer to licking the snow. She ate it with relish. Our friends were game. They were walkers for the love of it too. It ws the lady who exclaimed that the smell of Spring as well as seaweed was much in the February air.
Finally we came to our destination, Henry's Pond on the other side of the road that paralleled the vast ocean. The pond was fairly well frozen over, but not enough that we could let our Molly dash to its middle. So we gave the old war whoop that freezes her in her paw tracks and gets her galloping back to us.
The strange sight of thousands of flies all over part of the area despite the ice and snow-covered road seemed fantastic. Pebbles littered the way. And it was clear that the ocean had again invaded the fresh water pond, as it does winter after winter. For the first time in our many walks, we actually saw a wrecked lobster pot on the pond's ice where the blizzard must have air-lifted it across from the sea. We counted at least a dozen lobster pots strewn on the beach sands. some were in fairly good condition, others were just a mess. The ladies found a treasure of nature --colored stones on the beach. The female menace found her beach fun in a mad dash up and down the frozen strand chasing her own stub tail.
Riding the cream green sea was a full tribe of ducks minding none but their own business. A male pheasant shot from the fen into the air, flushed out by our prowler, who actually has no taste for pheasant, on the wing or off. We were about to clamber back onto the road when the wife spotted a utility wire trailing along the ground. Shocking? Hardly said our phone chief friend. It did not have as much kick as a shot of lemonade said he, so across it we slid.
Along the way we came across our friend, Henry Barletta, who proudly showed a spray of holly and bright red berries he had just picked in the neighborhood. And past a bush of red that bore the label, Cornus Alba Siberica. It was real handsome, despite the name. Against the sheer white snow, it was a picture.
That was our South End in mid-winter, as we made our way back to the car, happy with a Sunday walk that more should have enjoyed with us. Better try it sometime.
J.P.C., Jr.
Friday, November 6, 2009
A Walk on Nugent's Strand: Good Harbor Beach
It;s been a long, long time, in fact, since courtin' days, that the wife and I on a Sunday stroll have straddled the Gloucester-Rockport line on a "foreign" strand that us folks refer to as Good Harbor Beach. In fact it was our four-footer's first contact with that summer mecca.
Of course we cheated a wee bit this past Sunday by gasolining through South Street and Thacher Road down past Lee Saunders' candy place and the gull-filled pond that may become a motel site of the future.
The wife confessed, as we alighted onto the beach, that there was a pungent smell of Spring in the air, blending in with the strong rich aroma of a New England sea. The white-capped ocean foam had a soft roaring strength to it that seemed to feed us new life. It was a " A God's in His Heaven, all's well with the world," day, and no mistake about it.
As we crossed the dunes of Good Harbor, our eyes strayed toward Witham Street and the site of the motel-looking place they still call an inn, a comely architectural development for the area that we could not help but recall a rugged Yank who served his fishing village so well at Boston's Beacon Hill that they called this state representative, "Dogfish" McIntyre. The owner of Good Harbor Beach Inn of that day got his monicker from the fact that "Ed," his real name was forever even in vain battling for a bill to rid the waters of the pesky dogfish that raised havoc with his home town pals' fishing gear.
Again with an eye into the dim past, we could see that fun-loading wooden trestle cutting across the beach marshes from the Duffy's Oaks area on its merry bouncing way to Long Beach and pickle limes and Ben Clark's Military Band. Yup, we liked the front seat of the open trolleys with its jounce a second. Oh, nobody really lives it up today like that.
Down to earth, we reveled in the ball our heavyweight boxer Mollie was having as she corraled two companons, both males, both rough housers like the paunchy dame. One appeared to be a cross between a shepherd and a police dog, the other a full blooded police dog, both beautiful and spirited. All of them growled gutterally, but the three were big and so us folks like to think they can take care of themselves. Why lose a hand on a Sunday afternoon!
Along the way was a hugh trunk of a tree, ghastly white, shouting the story of maybe centuries of exposure to the elements on this and other strands along the eastern seaboard. Time can take them many miles. In fact, what is time to such relics of the sea.
Letting the eye rove outward and over, we collide with an oil tanker sliding by on the horizon, sleek, slim and relentless on her race down the coast. Another orbal sweep hits us into a showplace of the past, the famed Sherman House on the west point of Good Harbor. Set on a rocky bluff its 19th century garishness, what with its covered widow's walks, its elaborate piazzas never fail to arrest the eye especially with what the wife called its Chinese pagoda-like effect. To us, it was a setting for grim gruesomeness. As for the beach itself, evidence in abundance whacked us that erosion was rampant, that the state and city better get busy soon or there would be much less Good Harbor.
Our Molly, rid of her admirers was by now frisking with a sad sack of a forgotten Christmas tree on the beach at the tide's lapping edge. We just let her rustle and bustle. Good for her. By us, ambled young couples arm in arm in the same beach rumble of courting that once stirred our innards.
Healthy youngsters saw in the beach a chance to try out their Christmas bows and arrows and were sending the shafts into the targets banked against the sands. That was fun, too. Yes, we were living it up on Good Harbor, which we know honestly was actually Nugent's Strand because George Nugent had the best claim to it and its uplands until he sold the whole beach to the city about 1938 for a goodly sum. After all, he didn't need the whole beach for bathing, did he?
J.P.C., Jr.
Of course we cheated a wee bit this past Sunday by gasolining through South Street and Thacher Road down past Lee Saunders' candy place and the gull-filled pond that may become a motel site of the future.
The wife confessed, as we alighted onto the beach, that there was a pungent smell of Spring in the air, blending in with the strong rich aroma of a New England sea. The white-capped ocean foam had a soft roaring strength to it that seemed to feed us new life. It was a " A God's in His Heaven, all's well with the world," day, and no mistake about it.
As we crossed the dunes of Good Harbor, our eyes strayed toward Witham Street and the site of the motel-looking place they still call an inn, a comely architectural development for the area that we could not help but recall a rugged Yank who served his fishing village so well at Boston's Beacon Hill that they called this state representative, "Dogfish" McIntyre. The owner of Good Harbor Beach Inn of that day got his monicker from the fact that "Ed," his real name was forever even in vain battling for a bill to rid the waters of the pesky dogfish that raised havoc with his home town pals' fishing gear.
Again with an eye into the dim past, we could see that fun-loading wooden trestle cutting across the beach marshes from the Duffy's Oaks area on its merry bouncing way to Long Beach and pickle limes and Ben Clark's Military Band. Yup, we liked the front seat of the open trolleys with its jounce a second. Oh, nobody really lives it up today like that.
Down to earth, we reveled in the ball our heavyweight boxer Mollie was having as she corraled two companons, both males, both rough housers like the paunchy dame. One appeared to be a cross between a shepherd and a police dog, the other a full blooded police dog, both beautiful and spirited. All of them growled gutterally, but the three were big and so us folks like to think they can take care of themselves. Why lose a hand on a Sunday afternoon!
Along the way was a hugh trunk of a tree, ghastly white, shouting the story of maybe centuries of exposure to the elements on this and other strands along the eastern seaboard. Time can take them many miles. In fact, what is time to such relics of the sea.
Letting the eye rove outward and over, we collide with an oil tanker sliding by on the horizon, sleek, slim and relentless on her race down the coast. Another orbal sweep hits us into a showplace of the past, the famed Sherman House on the west point of Good Harbor. Set on a rocky bluff its 19th century garishness, what with its covered widow's walks, its elaborate piazzas never fail to arrest the eye especially with what the wife called its Chinese pagoda-like effect. To us, it was a setting for grim gruesomeness. As for the beach itself, evidence in abundance whacked us that erosion was rampant, that the state and city better get busy soon or there would be much less Good Harbor.
Our Molly, rid of her admirers was by now frisking with a sad sack of a forgotten Christmas tree on the beach at the tide's lapping edge. We just let her rustle and bustle. Good for her. By us, ambled young couples arm in arm in the same beach rumble of courting that once stirred our innards.
Healthy youngsters saw in the beach a chance to try out their Christmas bows and arrows and were sending the shafts into the targets banked against the sands. That was fun, too. Yes, we were living it up on Good Harbor, which we know honestly was actually Nugent's Strand because George Nugent had the best claim to it and its uplands until he sold the whole beach to the city about 1938 for a goodly sum. After all, he didn't need the whole beach for bathing, did he?
J.P.C., Jr.
South End Walk
Home work was pressing us as the wife and I and boxer Molly went walking on a fresh sparkling winter's day in Rockport town. But a weekend walk we must have or we get upbraided, even through newspaper articles, so off we took to the South End.
On Penzance Way, which has nothing to do with Gilbert & Sullivan's fictitious pirates, Molly found a paradise of adventure on the yellowed icy marsh, a treat you ought to give to your favorite canine without leash holding her back. 'Tis good for her digestion.
Then came a car with a dog inside and that gave the family pet of 65 pounds a chance to drop a couple of heft in puffing noisily after it, even though she only wanted to say a fond hello. Inside the car, we viewed the antics of one who wanted to break through the window, yapping a livid streak just to swap the same greetings. Frustrating, no less.
We met our friend Mrs. Harriet Garfield, another who knows the value of a stroll, and were reminded of our joint duty to our church. Looking to port, we caught sight of cat-o'-nine tails flush in their wintry growth, and close by, three snowy owls that Naturalist Elliott Rogers, the sage of 'Squam, taught us to observe. He once tried in vain to convert us into a Rogers Ranger over that terrible termnal moraine on Dogtown.
Oscar Harvey and Frank Haskell came along, collecting rock samples along the shore. They showed us feldspar, among other minerals that can be seen in Sandy Bay if you know where to find them. Frank's mustacheoed sire once ran Loblolly, where his claim to fame was that he fed a lobster dinner in the open air to President William Howard Taft.
We noted summer homes barricaded for the winter, homes of folks prominent in the nation's affairs. We came on a staunch peastone-buuilt road that defied winter. From here we went down a dead-end road to the ocean's lip, confronted by a dilapidated barn. This led us to a side street that challenged us in its muddy and icy condition, but nothing stops us weekend hikers. Walking into the late sun in all its winterish glory, we met up with the constabulary in their shiny jalopy. Aboard were Officers Johnny Borge and Jorma Savinen, who knew better than to offer us hoofers a lift. After making sure that we were not cottage breaking, they sped for richer realms in crime pursuit.
We continued to enjoy the richness of cloud formations , bathed with fading sunset. The South End was boldly riotous in color. And artist would blush to dare such tints on a canvas. Down by Henry's Pond we viewed an outburst of colorful humanity of all ages. Here, where the town has expended nothing, is a natural haven for those who love gliding on sharp steel in safety, with the broad surging Atlantic for a seething foreground.
Molly is far from a Sonja Henie, but her heft and her broad paws lend her purchase on ice, so she too, reveled on the pond as well as in the brush along the way, flushing out whatever wee animals might have nestled in the thickets.
It was along this road that a pleasing traffic jam allowed us to chat awhile with Dr. Reginald Courant, former school committeeman and alderman of Gloucester. Politics, Gloucester style, was the subject. Then the traffic came surging along like on Manhattan's Fifth Avenue and we had to button up. Back to our jalopy and the close of another joyous stroll with neighbors and friends.
J.P.C., Jr.
On Penzance Way, which has nothing to do with Gilbert & Sullivan's fictitious pirates, Molly found a paradise of adventure on the yellowed icy marsh, a treat you ought to give to your favorite canine without leash holding her back. 'Tis good for her digestion.
Then came a car with a dog inside and that gave the family pet of 65 pounds a chance to drop a couple of heft in puffing noisily after it, even though she only wanted to say a fond hello. Inside the car, we viewed the antics of one who wanted to break through the window, yapping a livid streak just to swap the same greetings. Frustrating, no less.
We met our friend Mrs. Harriet Garfield, another who knows the value of a stroll, and were reminded of our joint duty to our church. Looking to port, we caught sight of cat-o'-nine tails flush in their wintry growth, and close by, three snowy owls that Naturalist Elliott Rogers, the sage of 'Squam, taught us to observe. He once tried in vain to convert us into a Rogers Ranger over that terrible termnal moraine on Dogtown.
Oscar Harvey and Frank Haskell came along, collecting rock samples along the shore. They showed us feldspar, among other minerals that can be seen in Sandy Bay if you know where to find them. Frank's mustacheoed sire once ran Loblolly, where his claim to fame was that he fed a lobster dinner in the open air to President William Howard Taft.
We noted summer homes barricaded for the winter, homes of folks prominent in the nation's affairs. We came on a staunch peastone-buuilt road that defied winter. From here we went down a dead-end road to the ocean's lip, confronted by a dilapidated barn. This led us to a side street that challenged us in its muddy and icy condition, but nothing stops us weekend hikers. Walking into the late sun in all its winterish glory, we met up with the constabulary in their shiny jalopy. Aboard were Officers Johnny Borge and Jorma Savinen, who knew better than to offer us hoofers a lift. After making sure that we were not cottage breaking, they sped for richer realms in crime pursuit.
We continued to enjoy the richness of cloud formations , bathed with fading sunset. The South End was boldly riotous in color. And artist would blush to dare such tints on a canvas. Down by Henry's Pond we viewed an outburst of colorful humanity of all ages. Here, where the town has expended nothing, is a natural haven for those who love gliding on sharp steel in safety, with the broad surging Atlantic for a seething foreground.
Molly is far from a Sonja Henie, but her heft and her broad paws lend her purchase on ice, so she too, reveled on the pond as well as in the brush along the way, flushing out whatever wee animals might have nestled in the thickets.
It was along this road that a pleasing traffic jam allowed us to chat awhile with Dr. Reginald Courant, former school committeeman and alderman of Gloucester. Politics, Gloucester style, was the subject. Then the traffic came surging along like on Manhattan's Fifth Avenue and we had to button up. Back to our jalopy and the close of another joyous stroll with neighbors and friends.
J.P.C., Jr.
A Walk in Wintry Summer
Summer sure sneaked into Sandy Bay Sunday despite the chill winds. First sign of it was the thermometer reading 40 degrees as of mid-morning. Next was the strange sight of Artist Iver Rose and his missus strolling down Jewett Street toward their Main Street seaside home. Tradition has it that when Iver sets foot in Rockport from Broadway (New York), then that's the first day of the summer season.
We passed the time of day with him prior to our stroll. The Roses, in full bloom even to Iver's sheer silk muffler, made a special trip to talk business with a fellow Rockport artist, maybe a merger for all we know, and then were planning to inspect their manor by the sea to learn if the winter storms had left it intact. They were bound back to Manhattan to escape the North Atlantic blasts.
The wife and I with our four-footer, Molly, the boxer, waited untl the sun was high before we ventured forth. The wife this time plotted a short course to fetch up on Bearskin Neck, so we could experience a bleak but quiet Neck with shuttered windows and sea gulls as our only companions. That's what she thought.
On the way we spied another warm weather portent. Boys were playing baseball in the parking lot and having a lot of fun about it without fear of breaking a window.
Emerging from our own thoroughfare, School Street onto Main Street, we couldn't resist peeking into the new Oleana eaterie and its breath of Sweden, doing a thriving business. Down the avenue to scan a pile of sawn logs to the rear of Engineer Sterling Pool's yard, to note again that ancient lantern hanging over the front door adding to the richness of this center of town period dwelling.
Charming variations of wooden fences that build beauty into Dock Square and are probably one of the big reasons why outsiders repeat their visits to our town caught the wifely eye There was the plain white fence over to artist Harold Rotenberg's, the fancy white picket fence fronting the Pool property with its eight softly rounded stone pillars, the stately and smart white wooden pickets guarding longtime Advisory Board Chief Bob Rapp's former abode.
We hadn't walked another 10 feet when we were hit by the fact that old-fashioned wooden blinds mark this neighborhood. The Rapp house boasted green ones, Gene Thibeault's Rockport Market vaunted marooon ones, while Davy Jones' Locker was content with drab blackies. Who said blinds are a thing of the past?
Not only does Dock Square sport distinctive fences and blinds but its chimneys are varied. F'r n'instance the tall sparse red brick soot carrier shooting skyward from the tiny lone story ell of the so-called Wee Shop is taller than the shop itself. And across the way is a short stubby stack from a "skyscraper" in comparison to its neighbor. That's Rockport for you!
Then we ran full tilt into the third and conclusive sign of summer in winter. Traffic from the Sea Fencibles to the start of the inner breakwater was so thick that a pedestrian had to hug the sides of the walls. We who had looked forward to a stroll by ourselves found ourselves instead in the midst of all manner of cars, bearing license plates from New Jersey, Connecticut, New York and Rhode Island as well as our own Bay State. Wouldn't surprise us to know that one from l'il ol' Arkansaw sneaked by too.
There were some shops open like that of Shorty Lesch, who greeted us from the side door commenting on that fact that Rockport was getting like this every wintry Sunday if the sun favored the land. What else can the Boston folks do on a good Sunday, he said. It all makes for business.
Paying no attention at all to this mad rush was one weatherbeaten shack that today only housed the haunts of its one-time lobsterman owner, a shack that sported an upper window of six panes of bluish tinted glass, the kind of colored glass that antique dealers crave.
By this time we had sauntered into Wendell's Alley, which its owner, Eddie Wendell, prefers calling Tuna Alley. The extra-high tides of a month ago dug dangerous pot holes into it and threw askew the Republican and Democrat benches of the old Country Store.
It was a different Neck at this time of year, but a place we will visit again of another Sunday to see how a season can change the town's favored spot.
J.P.C., Jr.
We passed the time of day with him prior to our stroll. The Roses, in full bloom even to Iver's sheer silk muffler, made a special trip to talk business with a fellow Rockport artist, maybe a merger for all we know, and then were planning to inspect their manor by the sea to learn if the winter storms had left it intact. They were bound back to Manhattan to escape the North Atlantic blasts.
The wife and I with our four-footer, Molly, the boxer, waited untl the sun was high before we ventured forth. The wife this time plotted a short course to fetch up on Bearskin Neck, so we could experience a bleak but quiet Neck with shuttered windows and sea gulls as our only companions. That's what she thought.
On the way we spied another warm weather portent. Boys were playing baseball in the parking lot and having a lot of fun about it without fear of breaking a window.
Emerging from our own thoroughfare, School Street onto Main Street, we couldn't resist peeking into the new Oleana eaterie and its breath of Sweden, doing a thriving business. Down the avenue to scan a pile of sawn logs to the rear of Engineer Sterling Pool's yard, to note again that ancient lantern hanging over the front door adding to the richness of this center of town period dwelling.
Charming variations of wooden fences that build beauty into Dock Square and are probably one of the big reasons why outsiders repeat their visits to our town caught the wifely eye There was the plain white fence over to artist Harold Rotenberg's, the fancy white picket fence fronting the Pool property with its eight softly rounded stone pillars, the stately and smart white wooden pickets guarding longtime Advisory Board Chief Bob Rapp's former abode.
We hadn't walked another 10 feet when we were hit by the fact that old-fashioned wooden blinds mark this neighborhood. The Rapp house boasted green ones, Gene Thibeault's Rockport Market vaunted marooon ones, while Davy Jones' Locker was content with drab blackies. Who said blinds are a thing of the past?
Not only does Dock Square sport distinctive fences and blinds but its chimneys are varied. F'r n'instance the tall sparse red brick soot carrier shooting skyward from the tiny lone story ell of the so-called Wee Shop is taller than the shop itself. And across the way is a short stubby stack from a "skyscraper" in comparison to its neighbor. That's Rockport for you!
Then we ran full tilt into the third and conclusive sign of summer in winter. Traffic from the Sea Fencibles to the start of the inner breakwater was so thick that a pedestrian had to hug the sides of the walls. We who had looked forward to a stroll by ourselves found ourselves instead in the midst of all manner of cars, bearing license plates from New Jersey, Connecticut, New York and Rhode Island as well as our own Bay State. Wouldn't surprise us to know that one from l'il ol' Arkansaw sneaked by too.
There were some shops open like that of Shorty Lesch, who greeted us from the side door commenting on that fact that Rockport was getting like this every wintry Sunday if the sun favored the land. What else can the Boston folks do on a good Sunday, he said. It all makes for business.
Paying no attention at all to this mad rush was one weatherbeaten shack that today only housed the haunts of its one-time lobsterman owner, a shack that sported an upper window of six panes of bluish tinted glass, the kind of colored glass that antique dealers crave.
By this time we had sauntered into Wendell's Alley, which its owner, Eddie Wendell, prefers calling Tuna Alley. The extra-high tides of a month ago dug dangerous pot holes into it and threw askew the Republican and Democrat benches of the old Country Store.
It was a different Neck at this time of year, but a place we will visit again of another Sunday to see how a season can change the town's favored spot.
J.P.C., Jr.
Winter on Bearskin Neck
We walked by ourselves -- the wife and I -- on Bearskin Neck on Washington's Birthday. The Neck teems with humanity of all shapes and sizes, all manner of dress--and undress--during the summertime, but when bitter winds course through the winding paths, it becomes as deserted as Dogtown. But it is not uninviting; to us, it has charm for 12 months of the year, a varied charm reflected from its changing moods.
A few hardy souls live on the Neck the year round. One such is Friend Greenleaf, an artist, who was being dug out that day by an earnest young man who certainly was earning his fee. The walk to the side door of the home was plainly in need of being cleared to give its occupants escape room.
We looked for blizzard damage to the Neck, but Old Man Winter spared the cottages and shops where in the past havoc has been inflicted by high winds. The only thing amiss was a screen door twisted off its hinges at the "hut," a small cottage almost at the head of the Neck.
Looking across the bay toward Pigeon Cove, the spectacular sight of snow-capped Pigeon Hill greeted us, along with its many fine hillside homes, giving the appearance of a modest mountainside village independent of the rest of the Cape.
We bumped into Shorty Lesch of the Explorer Scouts. His head poked out of a strange door from an unoccupied shoppe. It was then we learned that Shorty plans to become an entrepreneur along that strand come summer days. Everyone likes Shorty and the way he helps folks.
Striking to the eye were rigid squads of spotless white-vested seagulls perched on the ridge poles. They stood motionless, but their eyes were everywhere. A foraging scout had tackled a disposal bucket in front of a lobster store and with persistency and considerable strength succeeded in reaching what the gull thought might be succulent items. The first stab was a blooper --just a washed-up drinking cup. The second try yielded a tasty morsel that caused a yawking and down swooped the front rank to fight over the spoils.
Over to T Wharf, lobstermen were busy about their boats. Somebody was pumping out the Nancy. Ashore the scenery was wintry but in the harbor and bay, it was as tranquil as a day in July. Only sign of February was the ice-bordered Sandy Bar breakwater.
Leo De Coste, actually the skipper of the trim sloop he was on, attending to the mooring, would hardly welcome being greeted as cap'n for fear his gang ashore would laugh him off the waterfront. But he is entitled to the rank for the amount of blue water he has wrung out of his boots.
In the village proper we reverted to practices first enjoyed in youth! Sloshing along through the slush, protected by overshoes; and walking along the top of the snow-banks instead of being our age and staying on the blacktop. After all, winter comes but once a year and why not get the thrill out of life that Topper of the movies seems to enjoy in letting down his hair?
Bumped into a friend who told us about a fellow Rockporter who was in a big department store in Boston the other day buying an article. The Rockporter asked if the clerk would take his check, so the story goes. The clerk was about to say yes, when a voice behind the Rockporter muttered, "I wouldn't if I were you; he has a poor reputation in the town where I come from." The voice another Rockporter, was saying it all in jest, as he quickly slithered out of sight. But the joke put his fellow Rockporter in a mess of trying to convince the clerk, a floorwalker, and even an assistant manager, before the check was accepted. It's a classic right now in this town.
We hadn't got much farther along when somebody stopped us to tell us about the good work that Pete Perkins and George Caffrey did in getting the ambulance on its way to a mercy call down White Way at the height of the February blizzard. A lady was expecting and needed to get to the hospital -- but fast. Fire Engineer Harold Hobbs and Fire Fighters Charles G. "Brud" Burbank and Lee Kramer turned to and manned the kit, except they couldn't get out of the Broadway barn unless they could move that high wall of hard-packed snow. That's where Caffrey came through as usual, along with Road Surveyor Perkins. They cleared the snow in jig time and also got the kit up through the Way. The patient was delivered to the hospital, but as it turned out, the actual delivery was not as near as first thought.
J.P.C., Jr.
A few hardy souls live on the Neck the year round. One such is Friend Greenleaf, an artist, who was being dug out that day by an earnest young man who certainly was earning his fee. The walk to the side door of the home was plainly in need of being cleared to give its occupants escape room.
We looked for blizzard damage to the Neck, but Old Man Winter spared the cottages and shops where in the past havoc has been inflicted by high winds. The only thing amiss was a screen door twisted off its hinges at the "hut," a small cottage almost at the head of the Neck.
Looking across the bay toward Pigeon Cove, the spectacular sight of snow-capped Pigeon Hill greeted us, along with its many fine hillside homes, giving the appearance of a modest mountainside village independent of the rest of the Cape.
We bumped into Shorty Lesch of the Explorer Scouts. His head poked out of a strange door from an unoccupied shoppe. It was then we learned that Shorty plans to become an entrepreneur along that strand come summer days. Everyone likes Shorty and the way he helps folks.
Striking to the eye were rigid squads of spotless white-vested seagulls perched on the ridge poles. They stood motionless, but their eyes were everywhere. A foraging scout had tackled a disposal bucket in front of a lobster store and with persistency and considerable strength succeeded in reaching what the gull thought might be succulent items. The first stab was a blooper --just a washed-up drinking cup. The second try yielded a tasty morsel that caused a yawking and down swooped the front rank to fight over the spoils.
Over to T Wharf, lobstermen were busy about their boats. Somebody was pumping out the Nancy. Ashore the scenery was wintry but in the harbor and bay, it was as tranquil as a day in July. Only sign of February was the ice-bordered Sandy Bar breakwater.
Leo De Coste, actually the skipper of the trim sloop he was on, attending to the mooring, would hardly welcome being greeted as cap'n for fear his gang ashore would laugh him off the waterfront. But he is entitled to the rank for the amount of blue water he has wrung out of his boots.
In the village proper we reverted to practices first enjoyed in youth! Sloshing along through the slush, protected by overshoes; and walking along the top of the snow-banks instead of being our age and staying on the blacktop. After all, winter comes but once a year and why not get the thrill out of life that Topper of the movies seems to enjoy in letting down his hair?
Bumped into a friend who told us about a fellow Rockporter who was in a big department store in Boston the other day buying an article. The Rockporter asked if the clerk would take his check, so the story goes. The clerk was about to say yes, when a voice behind the Rockporter muttered, "I wouldn't if I were you; he has a poor reputation in the town where I come from." The voice another Rockporter, was saying it all in jest, as he quickly slithered out of sight. But the joke put his fellow Rockporter in a mess of trying to convince the clerk, a floorwalker, and even an assistant manager, before the check was accepted. It's a classic right now in this town.
We hadn't got much farther along when somebody stopped us to tell us about the good work that Pete Perkins and George Caffrey did in getting the ambulance on its way to a mercy call down White Way at the height of the February blizzard. A lady was expecting and needed to get to the hospital -- but fast. Fire Engineer Harold Hobbs and Fire Fighters Charles G. "Brud" Burbank and Lee Kramer turned to and manned the kit, except they couldn't get out of the Broadway barn unless they could move that high wall of hard-packed snow. That's where Caffrey came through as usual, along with Road Surveyor Perkins. They cleared the snow in jig time and also got the kit up through the Way. The patient was delivered to the hospital, but as it turned out, the actual delivery was not as near as first thought.
J.P.C., Jr.
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Just A Walk Next Door
There are times when a feller just can't squeeze out enough time even for a short walk on a weekend. One of these times is when Uncle Sam and the old Bay State breathes down your neck with those confusing forms known as income tax blanks. Before us that Sunday was the Federal readjustment form for 1959, the State readjustment form for same, the 1960 estimate for both federal and Commonwealth.
By mid-afternoon, snowed under by forms, by scribbled tabs, we were suckers for a strait jacket, foaming at the mouth in our curses of all those chair warmers who had stayed up nights thinking up questions to trap us unsuspecting taxpayers so as to bait us into Danbury or Walpole. Believe you me, we were about ready to sign over the weekly pay check and moan help yourself but save us from these nightmares. Instead we completed every mother's son of them right down to signing our names to the dotted lines, so help us God. Now all we have to worry about is that grim gray badge three years from now demanding "How come you figger this way?"
But that's far, far, away, so with it off our chest, the wife and I decided to steal out for the short space before twilight to again catch the joys of Rockport afoot. The lateness of the hour insisted that it be just a walk next door. Up our own way, School Street, with our dainty little four-footer Molly waddling ahead like a dreadnought in wallowing seas, we dropped by the Drolets to check on the progress of his lobster boat. Emery had it swathed in tarpaulin to ward off the winter's gales. We hope to live to see the day it is launched. At least it's planked. But of course, he has to make a living meanwhile.
Our Molly, the questionable Boxer, cared not for boats but instead butted up against a l'il ol' houn' dog that had us puffing for a second until we saw the tails semaphore an "All's well with the world." That even made the sight of a bitter frigid ocean in the distance look heart warming to us.
Strolling this time of year has its hazards what with the glare ice hidden beneath thin snow. The town sanders try to smooth the way but playful winds throw them off stride. At our age, equilibrium means a great deal. But we managed to stay upright until the tag end of the meandering.
The spirit of Christmas still hugs Rockport. Clear evidence of this was noted at the Tuc Kraft Shop at the start of High Street where a lone miniature Christmas tree stood bravely on the top of a porch. Gaudy baubles adorned it. May it stay there until next Yuletide to remind all that the day should be year-round.
From there by Rockport's former police chief, Dick Manson's cozy house with its horsey sign for what reason we'll never know when we realize he's the prexy of the Gloucester Auto Bus Co. union drivers.
An indication that the olden days had a much greater respect for sheds was evidenced in the existence of a strong brick chimney protruding up from one in Agnes Rich's property on High Street. It was an impressive extension.
And the sight of deep pink blinds on the house at 22 High Street proved an eye-arrester. They lent an air of distinction to the abode. And nearby was an ivy covered apple tree in a yard which sported a "For Sale" sign.
A stately Christmas treee that would do justice to Dock Square come Christmas morn with the thousand of kiddoes surrounding Santa's emissary, hugged the portside of Skipper Alvin Brown's homestead at 20 High. Personally we think it should live out its days right where it is guarding the hearth of Rockport's Boy Scout history.
Back of Ready Kilowatt Don Pool's home we saw a new home rising up two floors. And almost next door, an ancient well sweep. Peaceful scenes these that couldn't last as long as Molly was in tow. For then all of a skitter, another female appeared, and how the fur flew. Who's to blame? S'help me, we don't know. But the air was blue with our curses as we couldn't fathom why ladies just couldn't be ladies, dogs or no dogs. But she'll be a walkin' with us come another Sunday. Why not do the same?
J.P.C., Jr.
By mid-afternoon, snowed under by forms, by scribbled tabs, we were suckers for a strait jacket, foaming at the mouth in our curses of all those chair warmers who had stayed up nights thinking up questions to trap us unsuspecting taxpayers so as to bait us into Danbury or Walpole. Believe you me, we were about ready to sign over the weekly pay check and moan help yourself but save us from these nightmares. Instead we completed every mother's son of them right down to signing our names to the dotted lines, so help us God. Now all we have to worry about is that grim gray badge three years from now demanding "How come you figger this way?"
But that's far, far, away, so with it off our chest, the wife and I decided to steal out for the short space before twilight to again catch the joys of Rockport afoot. The lateness of the hour insisted that it be just a walk next door. Up our own way, School Street, with our dainty little four-footer Molly waddling ahead like a dreadnought in wallowing seas, we dropped by the Drolets to check on the progress of his lobster boat. Emery had it swathed in tarpaulin to ward off the winter's gales. We hope to live to see the day it is launched. At least it's planked. But of course, he has to make a living meanwhile.
Our Molly, the questionable Boxer, cared not for boats but instead butted up against a l'il ol' houn' dog that had us puffing for a second until we saw the tails semaphore an "All's well with the world." That even made the sight of a bitter frigid ocean in the distance look heart warming to us.
Strolling this time of year has its hazards what with the glare ice hidden beneath thin snow. The town sanders try to smooth the way but playful winds throw them off stride. At our age, equilibrium means a great deal. But we managed to stay upright until the tag end of the meandering.
The spirit of Christmas still hugs Rockport. Clear evidence of this was noted at the Tuc Kraft Shop at the start of High Street where a lone miniature Christmas tree stood bravely on the top of a porch. Gaudy baubles adorned it. May it stay there until next Yuletide to remind all that the day should be year-round.
From there by Rockport's former police chief, Dick Manson's cozy house with its horsey sign for what reason we'll never know when we realize he's the prexy of the Gloucester Auto Bus Co. union drivers.
An indication that the olden days had a much greater respect for sheds was evidenced in the existence of a strong brick chimney protruding up from one in Agnes Rich's property on High Street. It was an impressive extension.
And the sight of deep pink blinds on the house at 22 High Street proved an eye-arrester. They lent an air of distinction to the abode. And nearby was an ivy covered apple tree in a yard which sported a "For Sale" sign.
A stately Christmas treee that would do justice to Dock Square come Christmas morn with the thousand of kiddoes surrounding Santa's emissary, hugged the portside of Skipper Alvin Brown's homestead at 20 High. Personally we think it should live out its days right where it is guarding the hearth of Rockport's Boy Scout history.
Back of Ready Kilowatt Don Pool's home we saw a new home rising up two floors. And almost next door, an ancient well sweep. Peaceful scenes these that couldn't last as long as Molly was in tow. For then all of a skitter, another female appeared, and how the fur flew. Who's to blame? S'help me, we don't know. But the air was blue with our curses as we couldn't fathom why ladies just couldn't be ladies, dogs or no dogs. But she'll be a walkin' with us come another Sunday. Why not do the same?
J.P.C., Jr.
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