February - A Walk to Henry's Pond

Apart from the thickness of snow all around, you would have thought this Sunday was the dawn of Spring. There was a definite bounce in the sun-splashed air as the wife and I and our four-footed Molly took a car-lift almost to Turk's Head Inn, Rockport, to begin the weekly stroll. Only this time, it was a rare occasion, for with us were our old-time friends, the Parker Eldridges of Pier Avenue. Parked on the far end of South Street, we set foot past the colorful gingerbread construction of the former Arey home with its widow's walk, its tiny chimney and adjacent small barn, a building fast fading out of the Sandy Bay picture.

And then it happened. A frisky overgrown black dog barrel-rolled out of a yard yapping with threat of mayhem at our not so innocent Molly. Our motto, gleaned from long experience, is that if they are of voting size, leave the pugs battle it out. Again it was more bark than battle as boy met gal.

What stood out in this this area was a clash in home architecture, for here were the conventionals of the early 20th century and before, right next door to the harsh modern ranch house type. To us, it looked healthy from a social standpoint. The neighborhood oozed personality. And a giant spruce with its tip pointing skyward heightened the picture.

One home that stood away out from all the rest was what the wife tells us is the Severy habitat with its dashing roof of green shingles, one side shaped like a witch's conical hat with two windows like eyes, and smack in the middle a slight bulge of a window. In the snow-covered yard was as nice a tree house as ever greeted us. We could see young America making the most of their handicraft.

We had come to the point where it was time to leave the hardtop and mush through an un-named lane to the sea. The snow was crunchy under foot, but not as deep, thanks to the delayed January thaw of the past few days. Ash gray bracken and thick brush grew thicker as we made our way.

Molly had the answer to licking the snow. She ate it with relish. Our friends were game. They were walkers for the love of it too. It ws the lady who exclaimed that the smell of Spring as well as seaweed was much in the February air.

Finally we came to our destination, Henry's Pond on the other side of the road that paralleled the vast ocean. The pond was fairly well frozen over, but not enough that we could let our Molly dash to its middle. So we gave the old war whoop that freezes her in her paw tracks and gets her galloping back to us.

The strange sight of thousands of flies all over part of the area despite the ice and snow-covered road seemed fantastic. Pebbles littered the way. And it was clear that the ocean had again invaded the fresh water pond, as it does winter after winter. For the first time in our many walks, we actually saw a wrecked lobster pot on the pond's ice where the blizzard must have air-lifted it across from the sea. We counted at least a dozen lobster pots strewn on the beach sands. some were in fairly good condition, others were just a mess. The ladies found a treasure of nature --colored stones on the beach. The female menace found her beach fun in a mad dash up and down the frozen strand chasing her own stub tail.

Riding the cream green sea was a full tribe of ducks minding none but their own business. A male pheasant shot from the fen into the air, flushed out by our prowler, who actually has no taste for pheasant, on the wing or off. We were about to clamber back onto the road when the wife spotted a utility wire trailing along the ground. Shocking? Hardly said our phone chief friend. It did not have as much kick as a shot of lemonade said he, so across it we slid.

Along the way we came across our friend, Henry Barletta, who proudly showed a spray of holly and bright red berries he had just picked in the neighborhood. And past a bush of red that bore the label, Cornus Alba Siberica. It was real handsome, despite the name. Against the sheer white snow, it was a picture.

That was our South End in mid-winter, as we made our way back to the car, happy with a Sunday walk that more should have enjoyed with us. Better try it sometime.

J.P.C., Jr.