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.