Winter Walk to the Mill Pond

It was so bitter cold in Rockport that the graphite froze before it finished the words on the notepaper, not to mention petrified finger tips trying to manipulate the pencil. Hardly a day for a stroll, not even a bite-size one. But you don't know the wife. Sunday had come around again and on the calendar that meant on foot around town for both of us, even if the Arctic had moved south.

One look at the mercury showed it no farther up the scale than 12 and the missus announced a half hour was long enough to take such punishment. We stuck to the heart of Rockport. Few if any community centers posses as much richness of charm to us.

Through School Street into Main with the long-eared boxer, Molly as the advance scout, we passed by two of Rockport's austerer great houses, the Hill House and the Tupper House, and thought of their earlier days. Both were fine single residences, the former having been that of Hunter Harwood, an engineer associated with the construction of Sandy Bay Breakwater, the latter, the home of Dr. Alexander G. Tupper. Today Eddie Hill and his wife conduct the Hill House, and Dr. Tupper's granddaughter, Mrs. Russell Brundage, and her husband, the Tupper House. Both places add prestige to the community.

Turning up Cleaves Street, we entered upon one of the most delightful sections of the town. From Cleaves into Jewett, up the hill and down Hale Street across Main Street again through Mill Lane, past the skating pond, into the meadow and back onto Beach Street to continue onto Main Street and home.

First to attract the eye on Cleaves street is the bright red door to the library's children's room, an addition the voters okayed that has won wide approval from grateful parents and more particularly the children themselves. Every hour it is open is the children's hour in that converted basement.

Across the way is one old New England church whose exterior holds to a tradition no one should want to shelve. It is the First Universalist Church of Rockport, over which Rev. Ralph M. Barker presides, along with being an official weather forecaster, School Committee chairman, and a businessman. Located on the brow of the hill, its proud steeple and simple facade radiate dignity and reverence.

Familiar sight in Rockport yards is a car on the front bumper of which is the red sign, "Rockport Fire Department," noting that the owner is one of Sandy Bay's call firemen, such as Jakie Nelson, whose chariot was resting in his Cleaves Street yard. Nearby was another Christmas souvenir, the abandoned tree whose day of glory had passed. The dump is its next and final stop.

From here up, culture long since took over this once winding path. For on this street are the homes of Authoress Ruth Holberg, Artists Arnold Knauth and his wife, Jerri Ricci, and in the past, Artist Sam Hershey, whose mother still resides in the large yellow house. Along the way is one of those picturesque items that delight the artist looking for the unusual. It is a large house, one half of which is painted white, the other side unpainted for a long time. The contrast is effective. Some modernists might call it "blight." Us stick-in-the-muds like to refer to it as exciting.

Fences along this street and down through Hale Street add to the picturesqueness of the section. Wooden picket fences, shrubbery fences, straight wooden palings -- no sordid attempt for uniformity or design. They all help to set off homes that breathe the joy of life. Far from being the mill row type of the 19th century, nor the development rows of the 20th. Then up before us as we come to the bottom of the hill looms a structure of red stone that even in its modernity blends into the picture quite nicely. It's the phone company's dial station. Only recently we asked for the Pigeon Cove School and were amazed to hear phone worker O'Maley's voice talking from the dial headquarters. Good man, we admit, but wrong teacher!

The all too nippy clime that forced us to write only at intervals had no effect on Mollie. Her browsing from one yard to another, her gruff greeting to all fellow four-footers, kept her humming along the way. Her pointed ears reaching skyward were a dead giveaway that just around the bend was a kindred spirit with whom to enjoy even a short romp.

Mill Lane never loses its lure for us. A sign that went un-noticed by us in the past now stood out like a light. Attached beside the door of a modest home it read, "Why yes! The Swansons live here." And on the sign were painted two birds.

Looking down the slope of the ancient cemetery across to the sea, the bleakness of a Rockport winter never appeared sharper. If ever blue can be a cold color, the sea can reflect it. In direct contrast was the warming scene of young skaters on the Mill Pond setting in the valley. Across the meadow, past the rushing waters over the thick ice encrusted spillway, we came onto Beach Street, and were agreeably surprised at the progress being made on Rockport's first motel, being built for Hermon C. Erwin, guest house and restaurant leader. It will be another asset to the town and its summer business.

By this time, even our feet threatened to drop off so the shortest way to the family estate brought a pleasant ending to another Sunday stroll.
J.P.C., Jr.