A short, short caper around town on a below-freezing day was not without its excitement as the wife and I walked on a February Sunday in Rockport Before the under-quarter mile stroll was done, our nerves were more than frayed; they were shriveled. I had visions of a sheriff's attachment on the sorry little equity on the family estate.
Yup, Molly was acting up. Females are like that, four-legged or two-legged. Ever since Eve, us poor males, have had to suffer through their tantrums and just wait it out. When we "inherited" this dashing sleek boxer, we were assured that since she is a spayed female, no other four-footer would condescend to fight with her. What they didn't tell us was that of the 300 canines the assessors say are roving Rockport byways today, at least 310 of them are spayed females. I swear I'll ship her off to the glue factory if I can get her by the loving female clan of the family. That is, unless she signs a Thirty Year Peace Pact with the world in general.
Apart from that, we wandered waterfront-ward to take a look-see at the outboard motorboat ramp that the town built off Dock Square. That cement ramp sloping right into the harbor waters is easily accessible and ideal for Mom and Pop and the kids with their weekend pleasure craft. And it doesn't cost them a dime.
On that cement ramp Sunday was a beat-up dory with a pathetic painter securing it to what we never found out. It was a throwback from the good old summer time when some youngsters would have parked it there having in mind a harbor paddle joy-riding around the fleet.
Off to one side was a gnarled old tree, maybe oak, maybe willow, who knows, we're no John Kieran. It was growing out of the stone foundation of a Dock Square building; straight out and then shooting up at right angles, to snarl into the ozone. Ye gods, how eccentric can a tree be?
To port was the kind of thing that artists drool about, the parabola-shaped time-worn rib of a shipwreck. The bone of a marine tragedy of the past. We might even have written the newspaper story of that saga of the sea. But now that story escapes us. Perhaps somebody died. There have been so many epics of the waves click through this ancient Remington, we just can't pinpoint 'em.
In the sheltered cove were many summer friends, at rest in the frigidity of the winter's grip. There were the Pot Luck, the Swan, the Linda, among others. There was no strain at their hawsers. Gulls were screaming overhead and riding on the biting seas. A lone innocent black and white duck braved the swells in quest of food she could wrest. Mid-winter is a brutal time for any of these fowl to gather enough substance to survive the gray months. Out past the small cove's gap loomed the brilliant sharp blue of Sandy Bay, foam-flecked, emphasized by the white buoys sprawling over Motif No. One, Jack Buckley's art studio that is now a national attraction.
Roaming up the street, we found our way into Jewett Street, to brush by another threat to canine domesticity. This time it was Russ Brundage, who has a proud collie he keeps secured in his yard. Our Molly was under leash because of her misbehavior, but it didn't stop her from yapping for a generous hunk of collie. If she only knew the truth, it might have proved to be a good chunk of Molly that would have resulted from the Sabbath bout.
In front of us was a tranquil scene of a bluejay and a pigeon enjoying a frigid siesta at Town Clerk Esther Johnson's bird bath. By the by, we humbly appologize for erring one day in saying there were bluebirds in this neck of the woods this time of year. We meant bluejays.
From there we trespassed to the rear of a Main Street property, principally to escape a brindled boxer. This piazza was once that of a famed Rockport artist, Yarnall Abbott. It overlooks the broad Sandy Bay and on this day was most impressive with the thunderous surf pounding the ledges and climbing up the rocky walls to beat agains the window panes.
As we thrilled to the pounding seas, we were reminded that observing a golden wedding anniversary at a neighboring church were the Alvin Browns. That was enough to terminate the walk. The dean of Scoutdom deserved first say.
J.P.C., Jr.
Thursday, September 3, 2009
A Cat from Hong Kong
A cat from Hong Kong with a brief curly tail was far from sociable to the wife and us in the 17th century Rockport home as he scurried for a cellar rendezvous, but that didn't spoil our Sunday stroll. It was a grand day overhead. A wee bit of muddy footing should prove no deterrent to those who enjoy meandering and seeing rather than flying by life on four wheels.
At the outset, it annoyed us to note that of all the stretches of sidewalk on our street, ours had a snowbank, forcing us into the street. As we're beyond shoveling age, let's hope they keep that sidewalk clearing by-law moth-bound with other impractical blue laws of yore. After national, state and city taxes, there just isn't any surplus to hire eager beavers to clear the way.
A pleasing sight was across the street in a school window where the attractive green jar (olla to crossword fiends like ourselves) gave that room a certain dash. Teachers have a flair for emphasizing the best to their children. Teachers deserve respect and loyalty. That respect should carry through to the payroll side. Fie on folks forever crying we should hire better and better teachers. For gosh sakes, what's the matter with the ones we already have? Our children have done well because of them. Haven't yours? But that's editorial, as the boss says, and no place in a causerie column such as this.
Up the street was young America, a half dozen strong, making the most of the snow that remained, snowballing one another, traffic signs and store fronts. We've known characters in our time who would have hollered coppers. We've also known that here is a healthy America, the type of youth that makes the nation strong by their invigorating boyishness which will grow into progressive thinking and action. May we have a lot more of it and less of the carping at such action.
Summer chairs on a snow-covered lawn caught our eyes. That Norwood Avenue resident is determined to rush the season -- and we're all for it. Farther on, we noted one of those large granite slabs in the yard of the Tresnon House. It took us back to the days when this was the base for the well-sweep where the family got their supply of drinking water. Times have certainly changed.
Too many "For Sale" signs greeted us on the way. Can that be economic recession? Time was not so many years ago when we were besieged by folks who wanted to know if we had heard of any house, big or small, in Rockport, for sale. And of course we hadn't. We felt fortunate we were given first chance at buying the home we loved and had rented for a decade at a war-controlled rental.
An amusing sight was a poor forlorn replica of a cow that for years has been a weathervane on top of Leland Smith's horse barn on Mt. Pleasant Street. The winter upset the poor bovine so that its snout pointed toward earth rather than in the direction of the breeze. The wife would have liked to try certain side roads, but here we put down the good foot. To us there are certain off-limit streets: the ones that loud-barking canines inhabit. Rockport is no different than any other comunity in having a surplus of unfriendly dogs, and we have no desire of meeting up with them if we can help it. We are of the firm opinion that all dogs are not man's best friends no more than all men are man's best friends. Generalizing on any subject is strictly for the birds!
Ever go along a historic street and scan the clapboards for dates? It's worth it. You sort of slide back into the ages just to see such years as 1729, 1643, 1685. That means those homes have been standing there for up to 300 years. Could you stand there so long? Don't try it!
The good spouse commented on the number of cars on the road. They were whizzing by us both ways, forcing us to hug the snow banks rather than lose our dignity or whatever else we were wearing. All kinds of buzz-wagons. We didn't mind getting sloshed by a "Caddie" but to get snow-whipped by one of those cheap $3,000 cars -- that was just too much. But who in this modern age hads a right to trod the highways! We sure found out. We were both "fined"...one pressing bill to remove the slush.
Yup, it proved too much for us, so when we came to the quaint doorway of Alice Powers on South Street in the old Benjamin Tarr house, we retreated from the highway to enjoy a spell inside -- and we were richly rewarded in the sight of a historic home whose gracious new owner has retained th old and introduced enough of the new to enhance the charm. Here's where we almost met the eccentric cat from Hong Kong, which made a bee-line for the cellar. From below we heard a plaintive mewing and learned that the caterwauling was from the amour of amours of the Chinese cat.
Over a cup of tea we were told that Hong Kong had something of the spiritualist about him, for he will cock his ear at times and sputter as if he was hearing the spirit of old Ben Tarr himself in the panelled walls. His little curly tail with the bob on top would really bristle like a radio antenna trying to breach the path between the present and the past. But could be it was a mouse.
On that thought we set ourselves toward home again and the comfort of a spirit-less house of the 20th century.
J.P.C., Jr.
At the outset, it annoyed us to note that of all the stretches of sidewalk on our street, ours had a snowbank, forcing us into the street. As we're beyond shoveling age, let's hope they keep that sidewalk clearing by-law moth-bound with other impractical blue laws of yore. After national, state and city taxes, there just isn't any surplus to hire eager beavers to clear the way.
A pleasing sight was across the street in a school window where the attractive green jar (olla to crossword fiends like ourselves) gave that room a certain dash. Teachers have a flair for emphasizing the best to their children. Teachers deserve respect and loyalty. That respect should carry through to the payroll side. Fie on folks forever crying we should hire better and better teachers. For gosh sakes, what's the matter with the ones we already have? Our children have done well because of them. Haven't yours? But that's editorial, as the boss says, and no place in a causerie column such as this.
Up the street was young America, a half dozen strong, making the most of the snow that remained, snowballing one another, traffic signs and store fronts. We've known characters in our time who would have hollered coppers. We've also known that here is a healthy America, the type of youth that makes the nation strong by their invigorating boyishness which will grow into progressive thinking and action. May we have a lot more of it and less of the carping at such action.
Summer chairs on a snow-covered lawn caught our eyes. That Norwood Avenue resident is determined to rush the season -- and we're all for it. Farther on, we noted one of those large granite slabs in the yard of the Tresnon House. It took us back to the days when this was the base for the well-sweep where the family got their supply of drinking water. Times have certainly changed.
Too many "For Sale" signs greeted us on the way. Can that be economic recession? Time was not so many years ago when we were besieged by folks who wanted to know if we had heard of any house, big or small, in Rockport, for sale. And of course we hadn't. We felt fortunate we were given first chance at buying the home we loved and had rented for a decade at a war-controlled rental.
An amusing sight was a poor forlorn replica of a cow that for years has been a weathervane on top of Leland Smith's horse barn on Mt. Pleasant Street. The winter upset the poor bovine so that its snout pointed toward earth rather than in the direction of the breeze. The wife would have liked to try certain side roads, but here we put down the good foot. To us there are certain off-limit streets: the ones that loud-barking canines inhabit. Rockport is no different than any other comunity in having a surplus of unfriendly dogs, and we have no desire of meeting up with them if we can help it. We are of the firm opinion that all dogs are not man's best friends no more than all men are man's best friends. Generalizing on any subject is strictly for the birds!
Ever go along a historic street and scan the clapboards for dates? It's worth it. You sort of slide back into the ages just to see such years as 1729, 1643, 1685. That means those homes have been standing there for up to 300 years. Could you stand there so long? Don't try it!
The good spouse commented on the number of cars on the road. They were whizzing by us both ways, forcing us to hug the snow banks rather than lose our dignity or whatever else we were wearing. All kinds of buzz-wagons. We didn't mind getting sloshed by a "Caddie" but to get snow-whipped by one of those cheap $3,000 cars -- that was just too much. But who in this modern age hads a right to trod the highways! We sure found out. We were both "fined"...one pressing bill to remove the slush.
Yup, it proved too much for us, so when we came to the quaint doorway of Alice Powers on South Street in the old Benjamin Tarr house, we retreated from the highway to enjoy a spell inside -- and we were richly rewarded in the sight of a historic home whose gracious new owner has retained th old and introduced enough of the new to enhance the charm. Here's where we almost met the eccentric cat from Hong Kong, which made a bee-line for the cellar. From below we heard a plaintive mewing and learned that the caterwauling was from the amour of amours of the Chinese cat.
Over a cup of tea we were told that Hong Kong had something of the spiritualist about him, for he will cock his ear at times and sputter as if he was hearing the spirit of old Ben Tarr himself in the panelled walls. His little curly tail with the bob on top would really bristle like a radio antenna trying to breach the path between the present and the past. But could be it was a mouse.
On that thought we set ourselves toward home again and the comfort of a spirit-less house of the 20th century.
J.P.C., Jr.
Galoshing Along in Rockport
Overhead, Sunday was mild and inviting in Rockport. Underfoot, it left much to be desired. Snow competed with slush, and water puddles had a dash of ice mixed in for the unwary. Saner people stayed with the cars and took a modest dose of nature. But not the wife and I. Inside galoshes we climbed and prepared for the worst. Except that the four-foot boxer could not be babied into felt footsies. Forever bared for action -- that's her.
By the way, this was the first time this winter we had to drag out the over-sized rubbers for a hike. Several times we nearly froze our digits trying to take notes, but always underfoot it was like the good old summer-time. New England on the whole has been right nice to us in what poets call the toughest season of the year.
This time we headed for the sea in the Old Garden Beach area just to make sure there was still a seawall standing. We recalled that a year ago this April the elements chawed out a gaping hole from that wall, and it was rebuilt by the abutting property owners and the town.
From the young homestead the three of us slodged through the snows of the High School yard , getting a throwback thrill to kid days when scuffing snow was a challenge and a joy. Bared, sidewalks were made for old folks.
Molly, the deceptive canine, was not that old yet. To her it was one deep sniff after another, topped off with a heap of rolls in the white stuff. Plus a pit of petulant heel nipping when she didn't quite like the course we were taking. Molly has a bit of the Emmeline Pankhurst in her. That's the militant femme in a day when gals were born to be meek.
Up Mount Pleasant Street into Atlantic Avenue we skirted by as cozy and snug boat-filled cove as you'd want for a masterpiece with which to live in your parlor. Sea scouters showed me the weather never stops them from working aound their longboat.
At this point, Molly met up with the first of her newly found pals of all shapes, sizes, breeds and temperaments. At each visitation, the brave one (thats me -- or I) turns his head discreetly the other way expecting any second to hear a Fourth of July celebration ending in at least one bonepile. But it was strictly a frenzied tail-wagged day, thanks be to S. Patrick!
For the first time, we noticed the odd sight of a three-terraced red brick chimney on an Atlantic Avenue shore-sided home. Could be it makes better smoke signals? Along with it, again we were confronted with nameplates on doors containing names of which we had never heard. Time was when the wife knew everyone in Rockport and the Cove. Now that's reduced to at least one-half the population.
Up Clark Avenue (no relation) the good missus was impressed by the knowledge that beneath the sullen gray bush stalks, Spring was pushing up through the snows, with fresh new green grass ready to douse the sallow yellow winter crop. In two months the Headlands of Rockport will raise the curtain on a scene that no other place can even imitate.
Ahead loomed a strange-looking fish doing time as a weather-vane its snout pointing nor'east toward Thacher's. It could have been a scup or a catfish, or maybe just a plain squigee. But its carver without doubt had a fish in mind as the knife did its job.
The Old Garden Beach area bathed in winter is a handsome sight with its snow-laden rocky shores, its graceful curvature, its warm looking homes. And the new wall looked as if not even a tidal wave could down it. The reconstructed section is quite long.
Up through Harraden Avenue away from the shore and we came to where the Joneses live. Of interest was the color scheme, with one garage door a brilliant red, the neighbor, as vivid a green. While green shutters on the home vied with deep blue ones. It was sure different -- and fetching.
Backing again into Clark Avenue with a whole battalion of dogs cavorting around the spayed ones, we passed one of the few fields left in Sandy Bay. The wife recalled she had picked many a bunch of wild violets in that field, and wondered if they still abounded there. We will have to return there this Spring to find out.
Thence into mud-filled meandering Cove Hill Lane as appealing a short stroll as you can find anywhere. Homes here seem to breathe the spirit of the fireside even more than those along the paved highways. And where else would you find a sedate old-timer wearing yellow blinders on its windows?
We were gone from our fireside but 45 minutes, but in that short space of time we feel we again lived more of our own town than ever we could have by car. Why not try it some Sunday? The winding lanes are yours for the walking --as well as ours.
J.P.C., Jr.
By the way, this was the first time this winter we had to drag out the over-sized rubbers for a hike. Several times we nearly froze our digits trying to take notes, but always underfoot it was like the good old summer-time. New England on the whole has been right nice to us in what poets call the toughest season of the year.
This time we headed for the sea in the Old Garden Beach area just to make sure there was still a seawall standing. We recalled that a year ago this April the elements chawed out a gaping hole from that wall, and it was rebuilt by the abutting property owners and the town.
From the young homestead the three of us slodged through the snows of the High School yard , getting a throwback thrill to kid days when scuffing snow was a challenge and a joy. Bared, sidewalks were made for old folks.
Molly, the deceptive canine, was not that old yet. To her it was one deep sniff after another, topped off with a heap of rolls in the white stuff. Plus a pit of petulant heel nipping when she didn't quite like the course we were taking. Molly has a bit of the Emmeline Pankhurst in her. That's the militant femme in a day when gals were born to be meek.
Up Mount Pleasant Street into Atlantic Avenue we skirted by as cozy and snug boat-filled cove as you'd want for a masterpiece with which to live in your parlor. Sea scouters showed me the weather never stops them from working aound their longboat.
At this point, Molly met up with the first of her newly found pals of all shapes, sizes, breeds and temperaments. At each visitation, the brave one (thats me -- or I) turns his head discreetly the other way expecting any second to hear a Fourth of July celebration ending in at least one bonepile. But it was strictly a frenzied tail-wagged day, thanks be to S. Patrick!
For the first time, we noticed the odd sight of a three-terraced red brick chimney on an Atlantic Avenue shore-sided home. Could be it makes better smoke signals? Along with it, again we were confronted with nameplates on doors containing names of which we had never heard. Time was when the wife knew everyone in Rockport and the Cove. Now that's reduced to at least one-half the population.
Up Clark Avenue (no relation) the good missus was impressed by the knowledge that beneath the sullen gray bush stalks, Spring was pushing up through the snows, with fresh new green grass ready to douse the sallow yellow winter crop. In two months the Headlands of Rockport will raise the curtain on a scene that no other place can even imitate.
Ahead loomed a strange-looking fish doing time as a weather-vane its snout pointing nor'east toward Thacher's. It could have been a scup or a catfish, or maybe just a plain squigee. But its carver without doubt had a fish in mind as the knife did its job.
The Old Garden Beach area bathed in winter is a handsome sight with its snow-laden rocky shores, its graceful curvature, its warm looking homes. And the new wall looked as if not even a tidal wave could down it. The reconstructed section is quite long.
Up through Harraden Avenue away from the shore and we came to where the Joneses live. Of interest was the color scheme, with one garage door a brilliant red, the neighbor, as vivid a green. While green shutters on the home vied with deep blue ones. It was sure different -- and fetching.
Backing again into Clark Avenue with a whole battalion of dogs cavorting around the spayed ones, we passed one of the few fields left in Sandy Bay. The wife recalled she had picked many a bunch of wild violets in that field, and wondered if they still abounded there. We will have to return there this Spring to find out.
Thence into mud-filled meandering Cove Hill Lane as appealing a short stroll as you can find anywhere. Homes here seem to breathe the spirit of the fireside even more than those along the paved highways. And where else would you find a sedate old-timer wearing yellow blinders on its windows?
We were gone from our fireside but 45 minutes, but in that short space of time we feel we again lived more of our own town than ever we could have by car. Why not try it some Sunday? The winding lanes are yours for the walking --as well as ours.
J.P.C., Jr.
A Washington Day's Walk to the Snow Summit
A walk in a snowstorm in February can be enjoyable. The wife and I tried it on Washington's Birthday afternoon, just for the thrill. Summit Avenue was our choice because of the steep hill and the fact we wanted to take a look at the Haskins Hospital property that the town is attempting to get rid of.
The walk was worth at least one effort, but here's one who'll pick smoother terrain for a snow-storm jaunt. That hill is more than a challenge. It's a booby trap under such conditions. Just pity the poor residents in a grim winter. All the sand in China would still not be too much for their sidewalks.
Naturally, Molly, the boxer, was along. To her it was paradise, for here were new worlds to conquer, new yards to probe. Snow and ice hiking hardly bothered, except once. And even she slipped back two steps in attempting one ahead.
Up by the attractive hillside home of State Police Lt. Richard Sherburne, we saw brave young souls banging a basketball through an outdoor hoop. Weather never phased them a bit as they popped 'em through. Rockport High School freshman Dick Travers was in the group, having his flings.
Summit Avenue could be called a street of impressive stone walls. There were many of them, high ones, low ones, rugged in every detail and reminiscent of a glorious past. All we could think of was the back-breaking work that went into the construction of these sturdy property boundaries. A porch with rounded roof, and in fact construction, graced the one-time Tate house of the past at 9 Summit Avenue. Elsie Schwartz came to the door to tell us about the place.
The wife spoke to her about the huge bushes of rhododendrons in the area. These bushes seemed to stand out much more than in other neighborhoods of the town. A lot of nursing must have been done to bring them to their present size.
On top of the hill, we came to the house of Roland, light green and modern. Roland Hildonen and his wife, the minister, Rev. Nancy Hildonen, intend to do much in developing their property, we were told.
Just ahead, it looked to us as if we were approaching a manor of the past. The tall stone gates of the Leander M. Haskins Hospital challenged our progress. But there were no frowning guards to bar our way. The only residents of the extensive property today are the Bill Kinghorns
Near-panic seized us, for ahead was a cat ambling without thought of an enemy being abroad. We are all too aware of Molly's pet peeve --any feline. And we had no desire to have a scene of dog chases cat in a neighborhood with which we were at peace. But for a wonder, Molly at this juncture was snouting around a stray dilapidated bone. Even a cat could have crossed her bow unnoticed.
The Haskins property was turned over to the town years ago to be used by the town as a hospital. For a space Dr. Clement Heberle of Gloucester conducted the establishment as a hospital. But for years, the main building has been without a tenant, an empty eerie on the hilltop.
It was hardly a day for enjoyment of the spectacular view that we have thrilled to from here in the past. The snow was really swirling, and agitating us more by the minute, and it was so thick you couldn't see to the bottom of the avenue. Sliding down the hill, we caught our breath long enough to spot attractive small colored panes on the windows of Tim Reardon's home which he styles most appropriately, "Top of the Hill." And near the bottom, a tiny winter-made frozen pond boasted some young ice skaters among whom was 9-year-old Frank Somers.
Our advice, wait for our next snowy day and then try that hill climb and fall down - but wear your snow treads!
Jim Clark
The walk was worth at least one effort, but here's one who'll pick smoother terrain for a snow-storm jaunt. That hill is more than a challenge. It's a booby trap under such conditions. Just pity the poor residents in a grim winter. All the sand in China would still not be too much for their sidewalks.
Naturally, Molly, the boxer, was along. To her it was paradise, for here were new worlds to conquer, new yards to probe. Snow and ice hiking hardly bothered, except once. And even she slipped back two steps in attempting one ahead.
Up by the attractive hillside home of State Police Lt. Richard Sherburne, we saw brave young souls banging a basketball through an outdoor hoop. Weather never phased them a bit as they popped 'em through. Rockport High School freshman Dick Travers was in the group, having his flings.
Summit Avenue could be called a street of impressive stone walls. There were many of them, high ones, low ones, rugged in every detail and reminiscent of a glorious past. All we could think of was the back-breaking work that went into the construction of these sturdy property boundaries. A porch with rounded roof, and in fact construction, graced the one-time Tate house of the past at 9 Summit Avenue. Elsie Schwartz came to the door to tell us about the place.
The wife spoke to her about the huge bushes of rhododendrons in the area. These bushes seemed to stand out much more than in other neighborhoods of the town. A lot of nursing must have been done to bring them to their present size.
On top of the hill, we came to the house of Roland, light green and modern. Roland Hildonen and his wife, the minister, Rev. Nancy Hildonen, intend to do much in developing their property, we were told.
Just ahead, it looked to us as if we were approaching a manor of the past. The tall stone gates of the Leander M. Haskins Hospital challenged our progress. But there were no frowning guards to bar our way. The only residents of the extensive property today are the Bill Kinghorns
Near-panic seized us, for ahead was a cat ambling without thought of an enemy being abroad. We are all too aware of Molly's pet peeve --any feline. And we had no desire to have a scene of dog chases cat in a neighborhood with which we were at peace. But for a wonder, Molly at this juncture was snouting around a stray dilapidated bone. Even a cat could have crossed her bow unnoticed.
The Haskins property was turned over to the town years ago to be used by the town as a hospital. For a space Dr. Clement Heberle of Gloucester conducted the establishment as a hospital. But for years, the main building has been without a tenant, an empty eerie on the hilltop.
It was hardly a day for enjoyment of the spectacular view that we have thrilled to from here in the past. The snow was really swirling, and agitating us more by the minute, and it was so thick you couldn't see to the bottom of the avenue. Sliding down the hill, we caught our breath long enough to spot attractive small colored panes on the windows of Tim Reardon's home which he styles most appropriately, "Top of the Hill." And near the bottom, a tiny winter-made frozen pond boasted some young ice skaters among whom was 9-year-old Frank Somers.
Our advice, wait for our next snowy day and then try that hill climb and fall down - but wear your snow treads!
Jim Clark
A Valentine Day's Walk to Saratog'
Overhead it was vitamin-loaded. Underfoot it was treacherous this Sunday afternoon what with shoulder-high snowbanks on either side of the streets. So the wife and I and our Boxer decided to cheat again and go in the family buggy to the rear of Long Beach to see what ol' man winter breathed on the terrain.
On the way through South Street, snow-covered fields bordered by hedges lent scenes of artists' delights. But a brindle boxer anchored in the middle of the road spotted our 65-pounder and gave a Don Quixote windmill charge that threatened to end in splayed boxer but for the fact that the good wife threw over the wheel just in time for a perfect miss. Meanwhile our genteel gal jumped all over me to get to the door window to salute her Romeo, drooling all over my right mitt in the doing. Boxers can be so devastatingly messy.
We hailed mail courier Dick Smith as he collected the love and marriage missiles from Uncle Sam's shiny mail boxes along the way. And then down Thacher Road to our rendezvous with the sky and the sea and the dunes back of the barred-window cottages. We had reached the toll gate, where collectors maintain an iron curtain against day trippers, such as we. Pictured in our minds was a lonely soul in a chair waiting for the cars. But that is in summer weather, not with a surrounding of snow-filled trees and sharp tracks of wild rabbits that offered a wild challenge to our Molly as her nose sniffed with jet speed. Even the triangular print of birds marked the snow and sent the four-footer turning cart-wheels trying to track down a victim in the flesh.
The long row of camps that hop with fun and bathers throughout the hot months were barricaded against snows and cold. Although the road was plowed out by Road Surveyor "Pete" Perkins and his Rockport gang, you just couldn't reach the cottages through the huge drifts. The great white wall was between us and the sea.
The wife and I were impressed that here on the cottage-filled strand, individualism held sway as owners belted forth love for color by choosing paints without worrying about dictation from any historically minded group. There were light blues, garish yellows, dull greys, and sheer whites. They were America speaking independence freed from color regimentation.
Along the way we collided with an old-fashioned well sweep covered by a roof which we lifted up and peered into the bowels of a hole that showed water at quite a depth. And it wasn't even frozen over. All the time we were in sight of traffic-clogged Thacher Road running parallel to our stroll. Even on our stretch, cars were barrelling in both directions as cottagers from Greater Boston came down to see the effects of storms.
And of course our Molly had to meet up with at least one pooch. This time it was a wee poodle belonging to a cottager down from the big city. Molly with all her beef can be a bit rough with the under-privileged, so the carpet-bagger scooped up his pedigreed while mater ran ahead with the leash and in seconds had long-ear under control. The wife is a dash gal. Me, I'm not, but for sure.
We noted in this area, a sign that read, "No parking in this fire break." It made sense, whoever put it there. Before us the marshes, as the distaff side remarked, were like the Arctic tundra and to us, like the Siberian steppes that we have never seen. Somewhere over the snow mounds we could hear a soft steady roar of the sea that we knew must be our friend, the ocean.
Above we revelled in the sight of smooth fulsome puffy clouds in a blue, blue sky. And it was here that we came to our old pal, Saratog Creek, with its bridge and invitation to cross into Rockport proper. Here, Molly really had a ball in the mountainous snow even to snouting what appeared to be bear tracks. Us, we had to retreat for the snows were much too much for us Sunday strollers.
Yup, we would have enjoyed your company along with us on this wintry snow-heaped Sunday.
J.P.C., Jr.
On the way through South Street, snow-covered fields bordered by hedges lent scenes of artists' delights. But a brindle boxer anchored in the middle of the road spotted our 65-pounder and gave a Don Quixote windmill charge that threatened to end in splayed boxer but for the fact that the good wife threw over the wheel just in time for a perfect miss. Meanwhile our genteel gal jumped all over me to get to the door window to salute her Romeo, drooling all over my right mitt in the doing. Boxers can be so devastatingly messy.
We hailed mail courier Dick Smith as he collected the love and marriage missiles from Uncle Sam's shiny mail boxes along the way. And then down Thacher Road to our rendezvous with the sky and the sea and the dunes back of the barred-window cottages. We had reached the toll gate, where collectors maintain an iron curtain against day trippers, such as we. Pictured in our minds was a lonely soul in a chair waiting for the cars. But that is in summer weather, not with a surrounding of snow-filled trees and sharp tracks of wild rabbits that offered a wild challenge to our Molly as her nose sniffed with jet speed. Even the triangular print of birds marked the snow and sent the four-footer turning cart-wheels trying to track down a victim in the flesh.
The long row of camps that hop with fun and bathers throughout the hot months were barricaded against snows and cold. Although the road was plowed out by Road Surveyor "Pete" Perkins and his Rockport gang, you just couldn't reach the cottages through the huge drifts. The great white wall was between us and the sea.
The wife and I were impressed that here on the cottage-filled strand, individualism held sway as owners belted forth love for color by choosing paints without worrying about dictation from any historically minded group. There were light blues, garish yellows, dull greys, and sheer whites. They were America speaking independence freed from color regimentation.
Along the way we collided with an old-fashioned well sweep covered by a roof which we lifted up and peered into the bowels of a hole that showed water at quite a depth. And it wasn't even frozen over. All the time we were in sight of traffic-clogged Thacher Road running parallel to our stroll. Even on our stretch, cars were barrelling in both directions as cottagers from Greater Boston came down to see the effects of storms.
And of course our Molly had to meet up with at least one pooch. This time it was a wee poodle belonging to a cottager down from the big city. Molly with all her beef can be a bit rough with the under-privileged, so the carpet-bagger scooped up his pedigreed while mater ran ahead with the leash and in seconds had long-ear under control. The wife is a dash gal. Me, I'm not, but for sure.
We noted in this area, a sign that read, "No parking in this fire break." It made sense, whoever put it there. Before us the marshes, as the distaff side remarked, were like the Arctic tundra and to us, like the Siberian steppes that we have never seen. Somewhere over the snow mounds we could hear a soft steady roar of the sea that we knew must be our friend, the ocean.
Above we revelled in the sight of smooth fulsome puffy clouds in a blue, blue sky. And it was here that we came to our old pal, Saratog Creek, with its bridge and invitation to cross into Rockport proper. Here, Molly really had a ball in the mountainous snow even to snouting what appeared to be bear tracks. Us, we had to retreat for the snows were much too much for us Sunday strollers.
Yup, we would have enjoyed your company along with us on this wintry snow-heaped Sunday.
J.P.C., Jr.
A Walk in Snow Land
Snow's not half as bad as some folks think as long as it doesn't come in too big bundles. Take for instance that of last weekend. Just enough to lend soft white fluffy beauty to the landscape but not so much that it bogged down auto traffic or stopped us Sunday strollers from our waistline trimming ambles.
That's why the wife and I and our streamlined boxer Molly hit the high road after dinner to wander for a wee bit. Out of our home path, School Street in Sandy Bay and up Broadway, trudging kidlike through the ankle deep white drifts, it was nice to see the fun the four-footer had racing through the snow, sniffing to her heart's content. There's no calisthenics like it for a dog.
The town's smartest move in years, that off-street parking lot where Mrs. Brown once lived and Universalists made merry in Murray Hall, offered an inviting winter scene as good as any Currier & Ives ever came up with. Cars of all descriptions bathed from hood to rear bumper in snow caught the eye.
Only a short time before we had seen our Molly baffled in her effort to scratch a hole in the snow-covered hard earth to bury a brand new polished bone from the butcher, only to learn the fundamental lesson that the best hiding place is in the most obvious location, right out in plain sight, so she left it on the front lawn.
No wonder she snubbed a couple of fellow canines who were staging a raucous Donnybrook on the front lawn of the Town Office building over a clumsy stick. To her,any couple so dumb as to bare teeth over a hunk of wood would never stumble over that precious morsel of hes. So along she went about her business.
Autoists seemed to be pleased with the fact that Rockport's roads had been sanded by Road Surveyor "Pete"Perkins and his gang. Getting around in mid-morning, the sanders brought relief. Early motorists slithered all over the highway.
Again we were fascinated by the sight of the decorative old-time wooden grill work on the porch of Rockport's baseball mentor, Dr. Earl Greene. Carpenters of another day outdid themselves in this fanciful brilliance of their trade. Thousands of patients have passed beneath it without sensing its beauty because of their ills.
The old blends with the new on the roof of the Florence Pool home on Broadway, where a widder's walk is flanked by two olden chimneys and a television antenna. The latter, forever, remind us of the pictures in old books of the storks' nests atop the homes along the Zuyder Zee.
Large ornate treees never look better to us in a front yard than when draped in snow. We are thinking of the Fred Tarr homestead on Upper Broadway, painted brightly yellow. The trees have grown massive with theyears, as stately and impressive as was the late master of the house, the noted United States Attorney.
Crossing over onto Railroad Avenue, we were greeted by an old-hat rocking horse that appeared to suffer not the least, even though its hind quarters were smothered in below-freezing dew. At least she was one nag that Molly never tried her hoof-nipping tactics on, as she does with live horses.
Christmas trees abound the year around in Rockport. Such were those on the Sam Henderson property, now that of Dave Scatterday on the avenue to the depot. Snow heightens their winterish glory. There's a real warmth to their frigidity for us strollers.
Across the way and over the railroad tracks we sauntered up along Poole's Lane, noting that steel-helmeted men were driving in Toonerville Trolley shaped poles by the tracks. They said it was to bring more power into Rockport, but as far as we are concerned, this town is already power-packed with all the things that make life worth living.
It was nostalgic to watch youngsters sliding down the hill. It seemed ages ago that we too had the thrill of coaching our own to sled belly-bumper over the snowy slopes. It's heck to see them grow beyond it. Never lose a chance to walk or play with those young 'uns. It's money in the bank of life.
J.P.C., Jr.
That's why the wife and I and our streamlined boxer Molly hit the high road after dinner to wander for a wee bit. Out of our home path, School Street in Sandy Bay and up Broadway, trudging kidlike through the ankle deep white drifts, it was nice to see the fun the four-footer had racing through the snow, sniffing to her heart's content. There's no calisthenics like it for a dog.
The town's smartest move in years, that off-street parking lot where Mrs. Brown once lived and Universalists made merry in Murray Hall, offered an inviting winter scene as good as any Currier & Ives ever came up with. Cars of all descriptions bathed from hood to rear bumper in snow caught the eye.
Only a short time before we had seen our Molly baffled in her effort to scratch a hole in the snow-covered hard earth to bury a brand new polished bone from the butcher, only to learn the fundamental lesson that the best hiding place is in the most obvious location, right out in plain sight, so she left it on the front lawn.
No wonder she snubbed a couple of fellow canines who were staging a raucous Donnybrook on the front lawn of the Town Office building over a clumsy stick. To her,any couple so dumb as to bare teeth over a hunk of wood would never stumble over that precious morsel of hes. So along she went about her business.
Autoists seemed to be pleased with the fact that Rockport's roads had been sanded by Road Surveyor "Pete"Perkins and his gang. Getting around in mid-morning, the sanders brought relief. Early motorists slithered all over the highway.
Again we were fascinated by the sight of the decorative old-time wooden grill work on the porch of Rockport's baseball mentor, Dr. Earl Greene. Carpenters of another day outdid themselves in this fanciful brilliance of their trade. Thousands of patients have passed beneath it without sensing its beauty because of their ills.
The old blends with the new on the roof of the Florence Pool home on Broadway, where a widder's walk is flanked by two olden chimneys and a television antenna. The latter, forever, remind us of the pictures in old books of the storks' nests atop the homes along the Zuyder Zee.
Large ornate treees never look better to us in a front yard than when draped in snow. We are thinking of the Fred Tarr homestead on Upper Broadway, painted brightly yellow. The trees have grown massive with theyears, as stately and impressive as was the late master of the house, the noted United States Attorney.
Crossing over onto Railroad Avenue, we were greeted by an old-hat rocking horse that appeared to suffer not the least, even though its hind quarters were smothered in below-freezing dew. At least she was one nag that Molly never tried her hoof-nipping tactics on, as she does with live horses.
Christmas trees abound the year around in Rockport. Such were those on the Sam Henderson property, now that of Dave Scatterday on the avenue to the depot. Snow heightens their winterish glory. There's a real warmth to their frigidity for us strollers.
Across the way and over the railroad tracks we sauntered up along Poole's Lane, noting that steel-helmeted men were driving in Toonerville Trolley shaped poles by the tracks. They said it was to bring more power into Rockport, but as far as we are concerned, this town is already power-packed with all the things that make life worth living.
It was nostalgic to watch youngsters sliding down the hill. It seemed ages ago that we too had the thrill of coaching our own to sled belly-bumper over the snowy slopes. It's heck to see them grow beyond it. Never lose a chance to walk or play with those young 'uns. It's money in the bank of life.
J.P.C., Jr.
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
Winter Walk to Evans Field
It was an ear tingling nippy afternoon for walking Sunday. The sort of a day that forced you to step right out or freeze in your tracks. But the wife and I loved it. Up Broadway, down Railroad Avenue, we hiked. Street sanders, George Caffrey and Frankie Francis greeted us as they slung sand along the sidewalks to give us poor pedestrians a break. Genial George had a follow through that would have done Gene Sarazen honors.
We are talking about Rockport. An ideal town in which to ramble of a Sunday matinee. We began to admire the winter hattery. Caps seem to be all the rage. Weird caps. The male variety lean to a flaming red beany type, or a staid old country type that covers half the pate. The ladies go in for even zanier types such as one that boasts the pony tail appendage, or the old sock version. But me, I love the cap of the 1920's, a plain old type that movie scream-getter Stan Laurel, the dead pan artist, used to wear. That topper was distinctive, even though it was not protective. And every time we get it out of the moth balls, the missus puts up a terrific howl. But we still wear it and take the consequences from the multitude.
That dirting of the sidewalks actually made it our first walk of the winter. For the snow was finally on the ground, the town had to sand the walks, and there was enough snow to make a snowball and snow man. In fact it was just like Miami where so many of our friends have gone to enjoy the winter swimming in the manner of the L Street brownies.
Along Railroad Avenue we passed boys with skis. In Rockport? Where would they ski? We soon found out. Down in Roger Edwards' old stomping place. Along deep right field of Evans Field where the great Rajah speared many a high fly to irritate a visiting batsman. Another youngster with high white boots having fun sloshing in puddles of ice melted pools. To him winter has a great deal of valued meaning. All of which is down to earth pleasure. Such are the joys of youth.
Then came an interruption. A party stopped us to ask if this was the right way to New Hampshire. Since they were heading for Pigeon Cove we felt obliged to correct them. Turn around but fast and take route 127 out of town and then 128 and don't miss the New Hampshire exit. We only hoped they made it.
On question and we discovered they didn't even know the name of the town they were passing through. They actually thought that one more gallon and they would be following the yellow mid-highway lines of their native state. And after all that the state highway folks have done to call the motorists' attention to the down east road signs along 128.
Down Railroad Avenue in Rockport as the ears threatened to fall off with the cold, we noted a cute little birdhouse perched atop a gnarled and twisted stump of a tree. It made a most picturesque home for any family of birds squatted as it was on a curlecued limb.
Ever go by a place a thousand times in your life and all of a sudden you see something, some wording that you had never noticed before, and how foolish you look thinking about your poor observation? That happened to us on that Sunday stroll. Up along the length of an old building by the railroad station, in weatherbeaten letters was "New England Coke". How long that has been there, we don't know. But this was our first introduction to it. And we know darned well, it wasn't painted there last Saturday. Our reportorial eyes must be dimming with age.
We were both stunned to note that an old landmark, the old isinglass factory, a three decker for year and years had been denuded to a bare solo story. Capt. Paul Woodbury owns it now and operates the firm of Rockport Twine and Rope. He needs only that single story and tax-wise, it was a sound step to lop off the upper floors where fish sounds from far off Hindustani once reigned.
Then down Granite Street onto King because the brittle breeze was frostbiting our ears and noses and what would we come up against but a bevy of ardent skaters on the Mill Pond. It was like a scene from Currier and Ives. And just as heartwarming. Folks never look happier than when they are skimming merrily along the snow banked ice ponds in the dead of winter. It's a sport that's open to all ages. The years seem to fall away and there's a real leveler of the age span. We just had to pause and drink it all in even though we were just spectators.
And on an opposite hill our eyes were greeted with the sight of a future beauty queen a-hauling two kinds of sleds --the vintage of 1918 and that of 1959. Personally we have a strong leaning for that old fashioned brand of flexible flyer that she was a-dragging instead of that tin enlarged "cuspidor" that trailed behind. It looked all too tubby for us.
Coming along Main Street and nearing that comfort chair at home, we stopped for a mite to admire the exhibits that the boy scouts and the sea scouts had placed in the shop windows. Wonderful exhibits especially that of Skipper Brown and his Scouts with their pictures gathered over the years. It exemplified what a wonderful man Skipper has been -- and is for the youth of Rockport.
J.P.C., Jr.
We are talking about Rockport. An ideal town in which to ramble of a Sunday matinee. We began to admire the winter hattery. Caps seem to be all the rage. Weird caps. The male variety lean to a flaming red beany type, or a staid old country type that covers half the pate. The ladies go in for even zanier types such as one that boasts the pony tail appendage, or the old sock version. But me, I love the cap of the 1920's, a plain old type that movie scream-getter Stan Laurel, the dead pan artist, used to wear. That topper was distinctive, even though it was not protective. And every time we get it out of the moth balls, the missus puts up a terrific howl. But we still wear it and take the consequences from the multitude.
That dirting of the sidewalks actually made it our first walk of the winter. For the snow was finally on the ground, the town had to sand the walks, and there was enough snow to make a snowball and snow man. In fact it was just like Miami where so many of our friends have gone to enjoy the winter swimming in the manner of the L Street brownies.
Along Railroad Avenue we passed boys with skis. In Rockport? Where would they ski? We soon found out. Down in Roger Edwards' old stomping place. Along deep right field of Evans Field where the great Rajah speared many a high fly to irritate a visiting batsman. Another youngster with high white boots having fun sloshing in puddles of ice melted pools. To him winter has a great deal of valued meaning. All of which is down to earth pleasure. Such are the joys of youth.
Then came an interruption. A party stopped us to ask if this was the right way to New Hampshire. Since they were heading for Pigeon Cove we felt obliged to correct them. Turn around but fast and take route 127 out of town and then 128 and don't miss the New Hampshire exit. We only hoped they made it.
On question and we discovered they didn't even know the name of the town they were passing through. They actually thought that one more gallon and they would be following the yellow mid-highway lines of their native state. And after all that the state highway folks have done to call the motorists' attention to the down east road signs along 128.
Down Railroad Avenue in Rockport as the ears threatened to fall off with the cold, we noted a cute little birdhouse perched atop a gnarled and twisted stump of a tree. It made a most picturesque home for any family of birds squatted as it was on a curlecued limb.
Ever go by a place a thousand times in your life and all of a sudden you see something, some wording that you had never noticed before, and how foolish you look thinking about your poor observation? That happened to us on that Sunday stroll. Up along the length of an old building by the railroad station, in weatherbeaten letters was "New England Coke". How long that has been there, we don't know. But this was our first introduction to it. And we know darned well, it wasn't painted there last Saturday. Our reportorial eyes must be dimming with age.
We were both stunned to note that an old landmark, the old isinglass factory, a three decker for year and years had been denuded to a bare solo story. Capt. Paul Woodbury owns it now and operates the firm of Rockport Twine and Rope. He needs only that single story and tax-wise, it was a sound step to lop off the upper floors where fish sounds from far off Hindustani once reigned.
Then down Granite Street onto King because the brittle breeze was frostbiting our ears and noses and what would we come up against but a bevy of ardent skaters on the Mill Pond. It was like a scene from Currier and Ives. And just as heartwarming. Folks never look happier than when they are skimming merrily along the snow banked ice ponds in the dead of winter. It's a sport that's open to all ages. The years seem to fall away and there's a real leveler of the age span. We just had to pause and drink it all in even though we were just spectators.
And on an opposite hill our eyes were greeted with the sight of a future beauty queen a-hauling two kinds of sleds --the vintage of 1918 and that of 1959. Personally we have a strong leaning for that old fashioned brand of flexible flyer that she was a-dragging instead of that tin enlarged "cuspidor" that trailed behind. It looked all too tubby for us.
Coming along Main Street and nearing that comfort chair at home, we stopped for a mite to admire the exhibits that the boy scouts and the sea scouts had placed in the shop windows. Wonderful exhibits especially that of Skipper Brown and his Scouts with their pictures gathered over the years. It exemplified what a wonderful man Skipper has been -- and is for the youth of Rockport.
J.P.C., Jr.
Oregon Trail Walk - Pigeon Cove
For too long the wife and I had neglected our Sunday strolls, what with money-making projects and then federal and state income tax returns to steal away our Sunday hours. But finally the air was cleared, the day was perfect for January with just below freezing temperature, so up comes the wife with sealed sailing orders right after lunch. Our four-footed menace and myself were the crew.
The 1950 Wheezer deluxe was pointed toward the argumentative North Village, the land of the Cove-ers. Anything could happen. We had visions of wrassling matches between the fattening femme boxer and the village prides with us in the middle. The wife has a penchant for us to live dangerously.
It was on Haven Avenue that the chugger choked up and let us out. Still no word as to destination but the fact the the missus put our Mollie on a leash indicated breakers ahead. We just gritted our falsies and tagged behind. The day itself was sparkling clear, the sun bright, and the clouds delicately flecked, blessing a calm sea highlighted by a snow-capped breakwater. It was just a mitten-less winter day, perfect for digesting a meaty meal.
First thing we knew, the boss had left the highway and straddled a chain fence, again invading private property. Some day the gendarmes are going to catch us in the act but it's too late in life for us to stop following the leader. We were told we were following the Oregon Trail. Our history book never dared to move that trail so far east, but as we said before, anything can happen in the cove. We just followed suit as the wife led the way along a snow-covered path that all of a sudden came to a Currier & Ives scene brought to life:
A quaint little frozen-over pond rimmed with winter-greyed willows, with youngsters in all manner of rigs having the time of their lives skating over a frozen surface that we were soon told was no more than three foot deep. Eleven year-old Bobbie Day, one of the skimmers, informed us that only that morning he and Tommy Anderson, 13, had cleared off the snow with two rough-hewn plows.
This pond was the Oregon. When and why it ws so named remains a mystery to us despite our questioning afterward many old-timers. Our introduction to the existence of such a place was from the late Bill Reed 30 years ago. We still are curious as to how Oregon ever reached the Atlantic.
Bobby wanted us to be sure to know the Cove boasted another safe and sane skating rink right next door, small as it was. They call it Silver Lake, also in a tree setting. The wife and I were glad to know that one section of the Cape boasted two such picturesque spots so safely shallow for youth to have winter fun.
While we were chatting with our new young friends out darted the menace to slither all over the ice in a four-footed display of how not to grace the ice. But she too had fun. The wife remembered the Oregon as one place where our daughter used to skate in her younger days with the Pigeon Cove chums. Now that we have seen it we were both glad this was the choice rather than the abandoned water-filled quarry pits of the area.
On the way back to the road we stopped to take a longer look at one of the Cape's oldest houses, the Witch House, built in 1692, the present-day owners of which own both the Oregon and Silver Lake. The property of Mrs. Oliver Williams, it has been in the possession of her family for many years. A little probing in the neighborhood revealed that it was built by two Salem brothers who moved here with their mother to save her from being tortured for witchcraft during the height of that madness. To us, it was just a beautiful home of the 17th century, one that could readily grace Deerfield or Williamsburg, one that would do New England proud as the seat of an historical house furnished in the spirit of our founding fathers.
We were further impressed by the mammoth boulders in the area, especially one at the gateway to Oregon. They looked as if they had been there since time began. We had hardly started chugging again toward home and hot coffee when outside there was a terrific roaring coming from the throat of another boxer who seemed to long to get inside the car after the household pet. We recognized the massive male as belonging to telephone tech Roger O'Maley, once of Gloucester. Our sympathy went out to both dogs as we came nigh to springing an arm socket trying to quiet Mollie's leapings.
The time for romance passed, and for us it was just home, gal, home, after a pleasingly brief meander of a wintry Sunday afternoon.
J.P.C., Jr.
The 1950 Wheezer deluxe was pointed toward the argumentative North Village, the land of the Cove-ers. Anything could happen. We had visions of wrassling matches between the fattening femme boxer and the village prides with us in the middle. The wife has a penchant for us to live dangerously.
It was on Haven Avenue that the chugger choked up and let us out. Still no word as to destination but the fact the the missus put our Mollie on a leash indicated breakers ahead. We just gritted our falsies and tagged behind. The day itself was sparkling clear, the sun bright, and the clouds delicately flecked, blessing a calm sea highlighted by a snow-capped breakwater. It was just a mitten-less winter day, perfect for digesting a meaty meal.
First thing we knew, the boss had left the highway and straddled a chain fence, again invading private property. Some day the gendarmes are going to catch us in the act but it's too late in life for us to stop following the leader. We were told we were following the Oregon Trail. Our history book never dared to move that trail so far east, but as we said before, anything can happen in the cove. We just followed suit as the wife led the way along a snow-covered path that all of a sudden came to a Currier & Ives scene brought to life:
A quaint little frozen-over pond rimmed with winter-greyed willows, with youngsters in all manner of rigs having the time of their lives skating over a frozen surface that we were soon told was no more than three foot deep. Eleven year-old Bobbie Day, one of the skimmers, informed us that only that morning he and Tommy Anderson, 13, had cleared off the snow with two rough-hewn plows.
This pond was the Oregon. When and why it ws so named remains a mystery to us despite our questioning afterward many old-timers. Our introduction to the existence of such a place was from the late Bill Reed 30 years ago. We still are curious as to how Oregon ever reached the Atlantic.
Bobby wanted us to be sure to know the Cove boasted another safe and sane skating rink right next door, small as it was. They call it Silver Lake, also in a tree setting. The wife and I were glad to know that one section of the Cape boasted two such picturesque spots so safely shallow for youth to have winter fun.
While we were chatting with our new young friends out darted the menace to slither all over the ice in a four-footed display of how not to grace the ice. But she too had fun. The wife remembered the Oregon as one place where our daughter used to skate in her younger days with the Pigeon Cove chums. Now that we have seen it we were both glad this was the choice rather than the abandoned water-filled quarry pits of the area.
On the way back to the road we stopped to take a longer look at one of the Cape's oldest houses, the Witch House, built in 1692, the present-day owners of which own both the Oregon and Silver Lake. The property of Mrs. Oliver Williams, it has been in the possession of her family for many years. A little probing in the neighborhood revealed that it was built by two Salem brothers who moved here with their mother to save her from being tortured for witchcraft during the height of that madness. To us, it was just a beautiful home of the 17th century, one that could readily grace Deerfield or Williamsburg, one that would do New England proud as the seat of an historical house furnished in the spirit of our founding fathers.
We were further impressed by the mammoth boulders in the area, especially one at the gateway to Oregon. They looked as if they had been there since time began. We had hardly started chugging again toward home and hot coffee when outside there was a terrific roaring coming from the throat of another boxer who seemed to long to get inside the car after the household pet. We recognized the massive male as belonging to telephone tech Roger O'Maley, once of Gloucester. Our sympathy went out to both dogs as we came nigh to springing an arm socket trying to quiet Mollie's leapings.
The time for romance passed, and for us it was just home, gal, home, after a pleasingly brief meander of a wintry Sunday afternoon.
J.P.C., Jr.
A Walk in a January Nor'Easter
As a comparatively tiny Cape was beleaguered by King Winter in all his awesome majesty, Sandy Bay experienced the full force of it. We enjoyed the grandeur of it on what through age and caution was of necessity an abbreviated walk around town. Actually there was a mission: that essential of a Sabbath at home --the Sunday paper. Daughter must have her comics come blizzard or no. Mom needs to devour that front page and the insides for the ads. And dad can't breathe without his crossword puzzle.
The snarling Nor'easter was at its height as we ventured out the storm door, shoving hard to push through the snow barricade. We clothed for it, galoshes, buttoned overcoat and of course a crazy cap, a blazing red creation with ear muffs belonging to the son. We have now adopted it as standard blizzard equipment to save ears from nipping. Up the snow-swept streets we sailed, through the cacophony of howling banshees, with smarting stinging gale-tossed snow pelting our skin.
We had gone hardly 100 feet when greeted by a flock of small birds in a quest for food in the swirling snow. Through our mind went thoughts of John Kieran and Elliott Rogers and how much they have impressed us with the importance of these tiny creatures to the joy of our lives. And we knew that they would say there was no bird so humble that didn't deserve to be given the chance for life. So back to the house to scrape the family larder to make sure that these chirpers at least had some breakfast...the selfish thought that if there is reincarnation, we too might be just a lowly bird.
Resuming element-buffing, we noted others, also with weird caps; one boasted a pom pom, another we swear was an abandoned stocking. A Cossack topper, a Kefauver fur piece, were on Rockport's stalwarts. The sights you see when you haven't got a camera!
We came to the first challenge. Winter had certainly stormed the ramparts of the town, piling up a solid wall of snow to block an entry from School into Main Street. But with galoshes on it is almost fun to slough through the white depths.
We came upon a breath-taking sight that would have repaid the most discerning of artists. An angered sea in dour costume, smashing pointlessly against the shore, comber after comber assaulting the bastions of civilization, only to fall apart into insignificance. Every roaring roller was like a giant pounding toward you to sweep you from the face of the earth, with a voice that shook the earth's foundations. We well know how tremendous that roar and banging of ocean-swept waves can be in the height of winter, for when first married we lived in one of those Front Beach apartments. And we loved every single roar, for it was like a symphony sent from heaven. That's probably why we stopped and let the blizzard spank us while we again listened to the aria of the ages.
But folks at home were getting impatient for that Sunday paper so again we trudged and found ourselves up against more drifts, except for the fact that the street itself was nicely plowed by the Rockport highway department. We later heard from visiting milkmen, breadmen and others from up county that Rockport was the tops in taking care of its roads after snowfall. Pete Perkins and your gang, take a bow!
We met up with Charlie Balestraci, who was lucky enough to come home from frigid Florida just in time to catch the winter's worst up here. Charlie with Rockport's Sonny Quinn had been feted in Dania, Florida, by a Gloucester chap named Frank McRobb, a not so dour Scotsman who once buttled for King George V., and who now is the bigwig at the swank Jai Alai palace, a place that nets $7 million a year. Charlie says that Frank went all-out for him and Sonny when he learned they haled from the Cape.
On the way home, headwinds slapped us sillier than we were previously, but when we met up with George Caffrey and Frankie Francis bucking the high drifts in their gravel-laden trucks, plow-equipped, we were ashamed to think of our petty element troubles for we realized they were fighting these same elements the clock around so we and others could get out and circulate. Yes, walking can be fun even in a blizzard. try it and see, friend!
J.P.C., Jr.
The snarling Nor'easter was at its height as we ventured out the storm door, shoving hard to push through the snow barricade. We clothed for it, galoshes, buttoned overcoat and of course a crazy cap, a blazing red creation with ear muffs belonging to the son. We have now adopted it as standard blizzard equipment to save ears from nipping. Up the snow-swept streets we sailed, through the cacophony of howling banshees, with smarting stinging gale-tossed snow pelting our skin.
We had gone hardly 100 feet when greeted by a flock of small birds in a quest for food in the swirling snow. Through our mind went thoughts of John Kieran and Elliott Rogers and how much they have impressed us with the importance of these tiny creatures to the joy of our lives. And we knew that they would say there was no bird so humble that didn't deserve to be given the chance for life. So back to the house to scrape the family larder to make sure that these chirpers at least had some breakfast...the selfish thought that if there is reincarnation, we too might be just a lowly bird.
Resuming element-buffing, we noted others, also with weird caps; one boasted a pom pom, another we swear was an abandoned stocking. A Cossack topper, a Kefauver fur piece, were on Rockport's stalwarts. The sights you see when you haven't got a camera!
We came to the first challenge. Winter had certainly stormed the ramparts of the town, piling up a solid wall of snow to block an entry from School into Main Street. But with galoshes on it is almost fun to slough through the white depths.
We came upon a breath-taking sight that would have repaid the most discerning of artists. An angered sea in dour costume, smashing pointlessly against the shore, comber after comber assaulting the bastions of civilization, only to fall apart into insignificance. Every roaring roller was like a giant pounding toward you to sweep you from the face of the earth, with a voice that shook the earth's foundations. We well know how tremendous that roar and banging of ocean-swept waves can be in the height of winter, for when first married we lived in one of those Front Beach apartments. And we loved every single roar, for it was like a symphony sent from heaven. That's probably why we stopped and let the blizzard spank us while we again listened to the aria of the ages.
But folks at home were getting impatient for that Sunday paper so again we trudged and found ourselves up against more drifts, except for the fact that the street itself was nicely plowed by the Rockport highway department. We later heard from visiting milkmen, breadmen and others from up county that Rockport was the tops in taking care of its roads after snowfall. Pete Perkins and your gang, take a bow!
We met up with Charlie Balestraci, who was lucky enough to come home from frigid Florida just in time to catch the winter's worst up here. Charlie with Rockport's Sonny Quinn had been feted in Dania, Florida, by a Gloucester chap named Frank McRobb, a not so dour Scotsman who once buttled for King George V., and who now is the bigwig at the swank Jai Alai palace, a place that nets $7 million a year. Charlie says that Frank went all-out for him and Sonny when he learned they haled from the Cape.
On the way home, headwinds slapped us sillier than we were previously, but when we met up with George Caffrey and Frankie Francis bucking the high drifts in their gravel-laden trucks, plow-equipped, we were ashamed to think of our petty element troubles for we realized they were fighting these same elements the clock around so we and others could get out and circulate. Yes, walking can be fun even in a blizzard. try it and see, friend!
J.P.C., Jr.
After the Straitsmouth Inn Fire
NOTE: The fire referred to demolished Straitsmouth Inn one New Year's Eve.
It was just comfortable and warm up-town for a Sunday afternoon stroll through Rockport. But no, that wouldn't do for the missus. She has to get a challenge out of it somehow, no matter how long or short the walk may be. That's how we found ourselves going the best part of the distance car hopping from home to the Straitsmouth Lifeboat Station of the U.S. Coast Guard. Destination, to glimpse how Straitsmouth Inn may be rising from the ashes of New Year's Eve.
Along the way we had to ford Swanson's Lake, on Marmion Way, the latest and of course as yet uncharted. Coming on it unexpectedly, we would have welcomed the loan of a periscope just for a moment. There wasn't a solitary buoy marker from shore to shore. Parking the jalopy as near to a driveway as decently possible, the three of us -- yup, Molly the boxer, never misses a buggy ride or a romp --started up the road on an inspection tour. That's when we realized all wasn't Florida in Rockport that day.
For here, the howling wind was plenty hefty, reaching in our reckoning as much as 50 miles per hour in gusts. And every gust breathed icicles down our necks. No wonder we weren't jostled by throngs. In fact not even the guardsmen poked their noses out of their duty home. Old Glory flapped and whipped with the strength of defiance we hope will always characterize her and fairly close by flew the Coat Guard pennon, setting off a smartly kept property. Th impressive radar tower rose over everything in the neighborhood, actually swaying in the gale.
Underfoot, it was muddy, icy, hardly a day for stepping out. The thick yellowed brush along the road kept the boxer busy inspecting every reed, snouting in through it, poking along the boulder mass. There was plenty of room to race and bid up with both ears pointed heavenward, hoping to catch the scent of an old or young feline. Such a waste of time.
Across the ocean's breadth, Thatcher's appeared grim and forbidding, snow rimmed, far from lending itself to visitors on a day like this. But there is always an attraction in the twin lights whether or not one was blacked out by Uncle Sam.
We were astonished to see how much Everett Wilkinson and his men have done to salvage what they could out of the destructive flames. He certainly means to make good his promise that there will still be a Straitsmouth Inn come summer. He has the large cottages that weren't touched. He is restoring th burned kitchen and dining room and this building looks good.
Of course to one side is the shambles of the inferno, the snarled bed-springs and bedposts, boilers, pipes, wires and whatnot. Bricks from the tall chimney are strewn around. No doubt when the weather is right, these will be bulldozed and trucked out of there to convert the area again into a place of beauty. The massive ship's anchor, its flanges to the ground, stands guard over it all, the ruins, the restored section, the natural expanse of boulders along the surf-washed shores.
A memorial sentinel on the shore side is the simple but effective tall cross that has a story often told by Rockporters to their summer visitors.
There were days when this area was popular with tautog fishermen, amateurs who enjoyed this sport as much as do the striper sportsmen of today, their surf casting through the night in this same vicinity. As we retraced our steps we saw the first group of similar intruders. With our backs to the breeze, we didn't envy them facing in the wrong direction for comfort. Confidentially speaking, Straitsmouth is a lot more enjoyable to visit in July and August.
J.P.C., Jr.
It was just comfortable and warm up-town for a Sunday afternoon stroll through Rockport. But no, that wouldn't do for the missus. She has to get a challenge out of it somehow, no matter how long or short the walk may be. That's how we found ourselves going the best part of the distance car hopping from home to the Straitsmouth Lifeboat Station of the U.S. Coast Guard. Destination, to glimpse how Straitsmouth Inn may be rising from the ashes of New Year's Eve.
Along the way we had to ford Swanson's Lake, on Marmion Way, the latest and of course as yet uncharted. Coming on it unexpectedly, we would have welcomed the loan of a periscope just for a moment. There wasn't a solitary buoy marker from shore to shore. Parking the jalopy as near to a driveway as decently possible, the three of us -- yup, Molly the boxer, never misses a buggy ride or a romp --started up the road on an inspection tour. That's when we realized all wasn't Florida in Rockport that day.
For here, the howling wind was plenty hefty, reaching in our reckoning as much as 50 miles per hour in gusts. And every gust breathed icicles down our necks. No wonder we weren't jostled by throngs. In fact not even the guardsmen poked their noses out of their duty home. Old Glory flapped and whipped with the strength of defiance we hope will always characterize her and fairly close by flew the Coat Guard pennon, setting off a smartly kept property. Th impressive radar tower rose over everything in the neighborhood, actually swaying in the gale.
Underfoot, it was muddy, icy, hardly a day for stepping out. The thick yellowed brush along the road kept the boxer busy inspecting every reed, snouting in through it, poking along the boulder mass. There was plenty of room to race and bid up with both ears pointed heavenward, hoping to catch the scent of an old or young feline. Such a waste of time.
Across the ocean's breadth, Thatcher's appeared grim and forbidding, snow rimmed, far from lending itself to visitors on a day like this. But there is always an attraction in the twin lights whether or not one was blacked out by Uncle Sam.
We were astonished to see how much Everett Wilkinson and his men have done to salvage what they could out of the destructive flames. He certainly means to make good his promise that there will still be a Straitsmouth Inn come summer. He has the large cottages that weren't touched. He is restoring th burned kitchen and dining room and this building looks good.
Of course to one side is the shambles of the inferno, the snarled bed-springs and bedposts, boilers, pipes, wires and whatnot. Bricks from the tall chimney are strewn around. No doubt when the weather is right, these will be bulldozed and trucked out of there to convert the area again into a place of beauty. The massive ship's anchor, its flanges to the ground, stands guard over it all, the ruins, the restored section, the natural expanse of boulders along the surf-washed shores.
A memorial sentinel on the shore side is the simple but effective tall cross that has a story often told by Rockporters to their summer visitors.
There were days when this area was popular with tautog fishermen, amateurs who enjoyed this sport as much as do the striper sportsmen of today, their surf casting through the night in this same vicinity. As we retraced our steps we saw the first group of similar intruders. With our backs to the breeze, we didn't envy them facing in the wrong direction for comfort. Confidentially speaking, Straitsmouth is a lot more enjoyable to visit in July and August.
J.P.C., Jr.
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