A Cedar for Remembrance

The two Sunday walks were as unalike as chalk and cheese but both had their own individual charm as soothing as cheese to one so minded. One was in the northern Vermont hills; the other in the Rockport that the wife and I will always love.

Before us as we stepped out the front door were vivid green remembrances of that Vermont walk. They were the two spruces and a cedar, bravely reaching to two feet high, that we had our farmer friend uproot in his sugar woods. The wife figured that Vermont and Sandy Bay should get it together. That Sunday walk in Vermont took us along the main highway where five cars in a line meant a traffic jam. Before us were two rugged tree-coated mountains, Pisgah and Hoar taken from Biblical names, dipping toward each other into spring-fed seven-mile long Lake Willoughby. Full flowing brooks off the roadside halted us to watch trout darting in and around cobbles. Strangely enough, there wasn't a fish pole within a country mile. A chipmunk scooted from around a tree. We looked for bear and deer. We had to settle for the chipmunk.

Even tamer was our stroll through Rockport streets this past Sunday. Except that you were mighty glad your insurance was paid up as you tried to duck the ungodly stream of traffic on every way. Greater Boston must have looked like Appleknocker Corners that day There sure couldn't have been any cars south of 128.

One thing we both noted. There wasn't a trace of Fall on the trees. Some contrast to up-state Vermont where large clumps of leaves on trees had already turned to brilliant Fall colors. Our farmer host read into that too early a winter. To him and his came the grim reminder of a four-foot snow level in his bailiwick last winter, with drifts up to 20 foot and more. He showed us colored stills of the farm and nearby town to prove it.

Moseying up School Street, the quiet air was blasted by "Ball Two!" pouring out the window of an old home. We knew only one inside was listening. Venerable Hosea Tufts was enjoying the Bosox shellacking the Baltimore Orioles. His plus 90 years haven't dulled his loyalty.

Summer Street greeted us with another array of fences for which Rockport has the right to be justly proud. Dick and Kitty Recchia have probably one of the most attractive of fences. Wooden pickets cut out like the silhouettes of men forming a strong front for a landscaped yard in which are his priceless pieces of sculpture.

With us again was our four-footed family member, Mollie, the disdainful Boxer. Her nose was high in the air as she ignored littler Scotties and terriers but woofed heartily at just as proud an overgrown poodle. We've found Molly to be a grade A snob. The wife and I are yearning for the day when that snobbishness will include cats.

Before us were stately cedars towering over the newly acquired home of our GHS classmate Marion MacLean on Summer Street. Couldn't help but wonder when our Vermont cedar, now 18 inches high, will get that big. Down Prospect Street, we thought of all the attractive signs that dot Rockport streets. As far as we know there is no dictum on signs but it just seems that the natives and the Johnny-come-lately's all have mighty good taste when it comes to signs. We note that of The Coach House as an example. This is in front of the fetching home that has a 16-pane window.

Two old barns that never should be torn down are on this Prospect Street. The missus tells me they belonged to the Pooles. But they're the real McCoy, even to the rustic horseshoe for luck over the barn door on one of them. Weatherbeaten wood structures they breathe Rockport atmosphere down deep. They are more valuable than Motif No.1! J.P.C., Jr.