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.