A Walk to Curtis Street

The combination of a strained ankle and lady dogs hardly blend for a comfortable Sunday stroll, but the wife and I and our buxom boxer took the chance by settling on mostly riding and a minimum of ambling in Rockport. Of course, our neighbor friends and long distance hikers, the Archie McMasters would smilingly scoff , in their verra Scotch brogue, "Isn't that how you always do it?" This hardy couple think nothing of covering five miles without accepting a lift.

The ankle strain came to me unwanted thanks to our Molly's careless manner of leaving her chewed bones all over the yard. This one I located while leaf-raking, and for a solid week, my pity for cripples leaped markedly.

On the ride to Pigeon Cove, Granite Street produced the first lady dog to spy Molly's massive cranium, and a prolonged staccato of woofs enlivened the Sabbath calm. We ignored it, enjoying the rich expanse of deep blue sunlit water in the Bay. We paid no attention to the stares of irked townies whose joy at collecting leaves from their front lawns was so rudely interrupted. Maybe we ought to buy a muffler for the family pet.

Mulch gatherers to the wind'ard, we overtook folks who find other ways than walking to bask in the outdoor life. A complete family was on wheels, two apiece in this case, filled knapsacks on their backs, pedaling along Rockport's scenic shore drive. That's a great way to really see the town.

We had to stop on the way because of the glorious sight of Louis Mappelli's landscaping at 283 Granite Street. In this country from Italy for 38 years, he has built up his place so that even at this late season, a bower of marigolds, begonias, mums, and zinnias fairly shone. His long-time hobby gives pleasure to everyone.

Once on foot, we stayed that way for at least a half hour as we browsed the neighborhood, despite the aching ankle. Another female four-footer at this point was no help as we had to gaff our own. Up Curtis Street, we collided with a path that soon took us to a sort of dank swamp featured by giant fronds all of 10 feet high, a mass of them. For a background were weeping willows. The wife thought of the scene as from a Japanese painting.

To the left was a shallow quarry bounded by a sharp hewn rock, yet with a gentle aspect to it all. The street itself had given no promise of this awesomeness. The wife and I ventured along the rim of this silent quarry even though the swelled leg bone was howling in protest. After all, Covers don't hot-top these quarry paths. We came upon a huge green background of trees and brush. It was worth the agony. And along the way were bright blue asters (I think).

A profusion of scrub pines sloped over the quarry's edge along its entire rim. To us, it seemed the ideal setting for a picnic right into the winter snows. A picnic for folks who enjoy nature's artistry and the chirping of birds and who have the decency of disposing of their waste paper and garbage in the proper places.

For background sound we had the whiz and whirr of outboard motors in Sandy Bay, the whish and buzzing of motors on the highway, unseen though nearby, and overhead, a plane or two, a deafening jet boasting of its future. We had hardly emerged from this idyllic setting when Molly fresh from snouting out strange smells in the wilderness, found her heart's desire, the hated cat. Yup, she zoomed on all four pedals, but where is there the dog that can ever overtake a feline? We breathed a sigh of relief as the School Street terror, tongue hitting the dirt, gave up the chase and from then on humbly followed us to the car and home. Even on one and one-half legs, this feller loved the short stroll. It made the brunch taste better.
J.P.C., Jr.