Fall in Pigeon Cove

A Sunday drizzle doesn't make for a pleasant stroll, so the wife and I and our cat-hater cheated on four wheels as we hit for Pigeon Cove to park near the Cape Ann Tool Co. It was to be a short stroll this Sabbath, hoping to stay as dry as the weather would allow.

Below us was a weather-beaten black and white striped barber pole flagging the establishment of the original cemetery commissioner, Johnny Francis, and boasting a nostalgic sign, "Ask for (a hair tonic)" which we trust is not-intoxicating.

Across the lively highway we noted an attractive home-like structure labeled The Story Library. The wife is one of the three who guide it through its bookish destiny. The curbstone border along the properties appeared to have gone on a bender. Not one of the long slabs jibed.

The wife had an urge to poke through Edgemere Road just to see what it was like. Here it was that the venerable Nestor of selectmen, Eli Morgan, long resided. A short road, now hot-topped, leads abruptly to the waterfront. The sea was ugly, frothing with white caps far below the road.

Edgemere Road loops past the home of one Critchet, he of the Gloucester National Bank, we presumed, on the very verge of the Atlantic. We admire a man perched where the sea in all its moods is so close. As we approached this off-street haven, we could see a healthy kitty dash madly around a house. Our Molly has a penchant for felines, but this time the dampers of her snout were down. Kitty took no chances and leaped to a porch top out of danger. To this hour, Molly does not realize how close she came to making the fur fly.

In the Tool Company's yard, we could see a mountain of purplish colored slag that lent beauty to the town's principal industry. We are ever impressed with the austerity of the company's red brick office building that is in such sharp contrast to the dingy gray mustiness of the forge plant across the street.

From here the good wife as usual had ideas to round out the Sunday walk by passing a "No Trespassing" sign. Me, I wondered what if anything of interest could lurk behind the dingy street frontage only to become excited at the suddenness of a hidden abandoned quarry a hundred feet up a woodland path. A mountainous slab of rich brown granite rose from the sylvan pond that winter-times must provide an ideal skating pond, and summers, a swimming pool par excellence. Only thing lacking was a diving board. Who owns it, anyway? The town should for recreation's sake. In the backgound loomed the light poles and homes of Curtis Street.

A few wheezes farther we came upon another abandoned water-filled quarry pit on the other side of the rise. The granite slabs of this one were encrusted with greenery. It was real shallow. It looked as if no one had yet discovered it. Continuing along the wooded path, we found it strewn with fulsome fall-painted oak leaves as we emerged onto Curtis Street, where punkins adorned the door stoops.

A vigorous police dog, male gender, was the welcoming committee for the loud-mouthed Molly. They woofed and they snoofed.
J.P.C., Jr.