Old Castle & Pingree Park

They said we couldn't make it. The winds were near gale force, the rains were tearing the landscape. But out came the sun, down went the wind. So the wife and I with our capricious boxer Molly chevied again to the fringes of Pigeon Cove. We parked in the shadow of the Old Castle, that 17th century dwelling with a 20th century touch of a fuzzy cutout of Santa as a centerpiece.

An old-fashioned sled was in the driveway of a house that had a "For Sale" on it. Maybe the owner won't part with the sled he loved as a child on Rockport's hills. Before us a sign read "Paper House" with an arrow pointing to the left, up Curtis Street. The house made of paper is today protected by the A. Richard Carlsons and Mrs. Stenman. It has much to offer.

A throwback to the past was a green painted bench meant for a passenger bus stop on Granite Street. Across the way was a wrought iron fence spaced with granite pillars topped by granite balls. Molly was having a ball. She had two felines in her range, both black, one treed, the other grounded. Fortunately for us the meeow was faster than the boxer and made the tall timber in ample time.

We were attracted by Madeline Griffin's house, cut in two so that a passageway could be had to the ocean, the number is 161 Granite. As we rounded into Story Street two sparse old ghost-like trees squatted square in the middle of the road within 20 feet, opposite Norm Pool's home. Both were painted white up to about six feet high to warn motorists at night not to smear 'em.

A plaque at Pingree Field read, "Presented by Pingree Recreative Association of Pigeon Cove in memory of Rev. Arthur Howe Pingree, lover of the young for whom he lost his life, July 10, 1915." He must have been really great. But what about that word "Recreative?" It bothers us.

Just before this point, the four-footer's sleek brown broad stern came within a whisker of being whacked by a sleeker limousine. Down came the car window as the smiling driver hollered, "I wouldn't hit that dog for anything!" A dog's best friend must be man.

Pigeon Cove is a gold mine of laughing brooks coursing over rough terrain. On Story Street we reveled in the sound and sight of one. Strollng on a way of houses on one side while on the other nature runs spiritually rough-shod. Makes you tingle that God IS in His Heaven, after all, as Browning claimed.

The Story Elementary School inspires in the Yuletide season with its windows aglow with star cutouts, on the brow of the hill, like a star-studded firmament. Maybe that's stretching the imagination a wee bit but we liked the thought.

By this time Molly had darted out of line to pay a call on Betty Bartlett, for we had reached Pigeon Hill Street. The Bearskin Neck 9 o'clock-sharp closing young merchant wasn't to home, but the boxer relished the snout probe of the period house with its white trim on the front and the second story balcony.

Wintry chills failed to dampen the ardor of young fry shooting baskets at an outdoor hoop on the property of Contractor John F. Lilja. Maybe that's why Sandy Bay has superior basketball teams year in and year out. They train to swish the ball through the twine.

We came to a sign reading, "Pri. Property, pass at your own risk." The way led up past a stack of weatherbeaten lobster pots smack into a ridge of craggy boulders overgrown with briars. The "risk was' sure imminent. Thus we found our way back onto Granite Street and our chariot, a pleasant walk without even rousing up a pinch of short breath. The Cove's an Eden for Sunday Walkers.
J.P.C., Jr.