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.